


Tournament

by nicecuppacha



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies), Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: Abuse, Compliant to either Star Trek TOS or AOS, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, M/M, Master/Slave, Rape/Non-con Elements, Romance, Smut, Trauma, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-06-14
Updated: 2018-06-14
Packaged: 2019-05-23 06:18:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 7
Words: 29,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14928791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nicecuppacha/pseuds/nicecuppacha
Summary: James Tiberius Kirk, a lowly farmer who bitterly aspires for a better life out amongst the stars finds himself an unwilling participant in the legendary Tournament. The first of his kind to be allowed to compete he expects discrimination and upper-class bigotry. What he does not expect is to find himself inexplicably drawn to his champion: a certain traumatized, Vulcan half-breed.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Although this was originally intended as an TOS AU fic I liked the idea of a destroyed Vulcan so stole that and a few other themes from the reboot/AOS. Kirk's eyes are hazel, so apologies to anyone reading this through the AOS lens. 
> 
>  
> 
> Also please note that this story includes graphic content as listed in the tags. You have been warned.

A dim, peachy haze blanketed the sky, successfully concealing the stars from view. On that of all nights James T. Kirk would have welcomed the inky abyss pocked with silver, gold and crimson. Narrowing his eyes he squinted, a wasted attempt at seeing something, anything through the disgusting fog of light pollution. A vain effort, futile and pointless. He swallowed. The stars would be visible again soon; he just had to get out of the city. This was a temporary arrangement, soon everything would be as it was and he could return to spending his evenings staring up into the darkness, dreaming of a forbidden future out in the cosmos.

A sharp rapping on the door to his quarters caused him to flinch and his stomach lurched so violently that he had to steady himself. To say that his attire was elaborate would have been an understatement. Golden silks embroidered in emerald, shimmered as he gazed down at his shaking hands. They were made to match his hair and eyes; a notion that Jim had scoffed as ridiculous the second his mother had suggested it; not that she’d listened; not that anyone ever listened. He hadn’t bothered to protest the fact that his eyes were hazel, and closer to brown than green; the woman had been determined to have her way. The smooth fabric fit him perfectly; not a coincidence, for he’d been forced to have every part of his muscular frame measured to ensure that they would bring his youthful physique justice. He swallowed again; it would not do for him to vomit on himself now. 

“James...it’s arrived!” his mother’s excited squawk came from outside the door. “Oh James dear do open the door!” 

Jim closed his eyes, exhaled and then retreated from the balcony and back into his temporary accommodation, crossing it quickly to pull open the door that concealed his mother from view. She was a slight woman, blonde with large eyes that seemed to double in size as she took in the sight of her only child. “Oh.” She raised a trembling hand to her lips, “oh James...you look...”

“Ridiculous.” He finished and stepped back into the room to let her in. “I look like a christmas tree.” 

“Nonsense!” She snapped and hustled towards him, grabbing at him to straighten his clothes out further. “You look very handsome. Now...have you prepared your speech?” 

Jim stepped awkwardly to the left and attempted to bat away his mother’s hands. “Yeah...look is there any need for so much...I mean....it’s not like I’m getting married or anything.” His mother made a clucking noise with her teeth and brought her hands to rest on her waist; a sure sign that he was about to receive a lecture.

And sure enough.... “This is potentially much more important than marriage James! Do you know how much of an honour it is for a member of our tier to be allowed to compete? To be granted a champion?”

“Slave.” His voice was a broken, whisper, “I’m being given a slave to train. Nothing more.” 

His mother sighed and raised a hand to cup his face. “That’s not true...the creature that you are given will be a representation of your strength and wisdom. To train a champion is no simple task James; you must dedicate yourself entirely to this. I heard that most men granted a champion are unable even to break them...but you must not fail...the whole tier is relying on you.”

Jim felt his breath shudder, he pulled away from his mother again and closed his eyes. Sensing his discomfort and the severity of his internal battle, the woman fell silent, and stepped away, allowing him the space that he needed to regain his composure. 

James T.Kirk had been born a member of the Zaita tier; which ranked eighth in the hierarchal system of the moon Naius II. There were ten tiers in total each with a population of approximately five hundred thousand. Social interaction was only permitted with fellow members of the tier and with those one level higher or lower. To be caught interacting with anyone outside your tier would bring great shame to the member of the higher tier, the superior. For the inferior member of the lower tier punishment would be dealt, and it would be both public and painful. Those fortunate enough to be born in the higher tiers were said to be able to afford any luxury - riches went to riches, while the lower tiers struggled to survive from day to day. 

“What happens when the Federation hears about this?” Jim clenched his fists and raised his chin. “Slavery is illegal!” 

“Untouchability is also banned but I don’t see the Zamba or Zymph tiers paying any attention to those rules either!” his mother flared, and then visibly tried to calm herself. “The Federation abandoned us long ago, James....they’re not coming back.”

“That’s not true,” his nails were digging into his palms and his jaw felt as though it were made of iron, “mother you can’t believe tha...”

“I do!” she snapped, “enough of this nonsense! We separated from them...it’s not for the likes of us to know how or why, only to accept.”

“Well I don’t accept it!” he felt his patience snap as he roared at the tiny woman before him, “why shouldn’t we know? We’re human - just like them! What makes us inferior? I’m sick of this bullshit.” He raised his hands to his hair and clawed at the short, golden tussles in a desperate attempt not to start smashing up the room that they could by no means afford. “I won’t do it.”

“You will.” His mother sighed, and made her way quietly to perch on the edge of the giant feather mattress, the luxury of which had prevented Jim from getting any rest. “If you do not then the whole tier will be punished...demoted to the likes of tier nine.” She swallowed, “James you’ve seen how those people live...” Jim shuddered and tried not to think about how life could become any more sordid. “But James if you succeed...if you train a Champion...a real Champion you could bring us riches...education...better crops...” her eyes were shining again, as she fantasized about a better future. Jim felt a lump form in his throat as he noticed the crows feet around her eyes and the harsh lines around her mouth. “It happened to the Zookfa clan...remember? Tier six...they used to be like us but then they were allowed to start training...it changed everything! And now you’re the first...Jimmy please.”

He closed his eyes. “Have you seen it?” he whispered.

“What?”

“The slave...have you seen it?” He opened his eyes and gazed at the woman that had raised him. She shook her head and lowered her eyes.

“It’s...still in the crate.” She bit her lip. “James if there was another way...” He held up his hand. 

“Don’t.” He flexed his fingers. “You’re right. This is bigger than me, and there are more lives at stake than one alien slave.” He lowered his arm. “When will the ceremony begin?” 

“As soon as you are ready.” She stood up slowly, her eyes teary. “Oh James, I hope you know that your father would have been...”

“Don’t say proud.” He turned and began to head for the door. “I hate to think that he’d approve of this.” His mother sniffed behind him but he didn’t turn. 

There was nothing to be gained from postponing the inevitable. He set his jaw and drew back his shoulders as he marched from the room and began to descend the ginormous staircase. Scanning the area below he could see about thirty people, few of which he recognized, and fewer still that seemed comfortable with the unnatural selection of company. But his gaze did not linger on the elite council members, acclaimed trainers or the master of ceremonies; instead his attention fell to a wooden crate, cuboid in dimension and hardly higher than a meter high. Around him the din immediately lulled into silence as he glided to a stop in front of the box, as though in a trance he lifted his hand and traced the wood with his fingers, conscious of the volume of his heart beating against his chest.

The sound of someone clearing their throat, he turned to find the master of ceremonies, staring at him expectantly. “You are ready to begin?” the portly, little red head spoke in a shrill voice that left Jim feeling cold.

“Yes, sir.” He wished that he sounded more certain. 

“Very well.” The man turned and began to point at various servants around the room. “Heat the irons, bring the tools, open the crate.” He turned back to Jim and glanced him up and down with distain. “Allowing Zaita scum to train a champion!” he scoffed, “I’ve never heard of such nonsense...still I must perform my duties and I trust that you are capable of doing what is expected of you?” Jim felt the familiar surge of hatred towards upperclass bigotry start to bubble in his gut but simply nodded, aware of his mother lingering nervously close by. If his anger had been obvious, the master of ceremonies certainly didn’t seem to notice nor had he bothered to wait for a response, as he busied himself with his scroll. “My God...” the man gasped, as he scrambled for his glasses to double check his readings, “it’s...it’s an outrage!” He threw the scroll to the ground and turned desperately to the council members who were watching the whole affair with faintly disguised indifference. “His champion is a...why it’s a...”

“The champions are allocated at random.” A tall, scrawny woman with greying hair pulled back in a bun drawled, “although it is most...unfortunate that such a specimen should be wasted on the likes of him.” She shot a disgruntled look in Kirk’s direction, “the rules cannot be tampered with. They have been matched.” 

The master of ceremonies bristled visibly at the council member’s response and then quickly busied himself with his scrolls once more, “very well, very well!” he cried, in what Jim felt was an unnecessarily loud voice, “you!” he pointed a bulbous finger at Jim, “are you ready?” Jim nodded but when the man raised a bushy brow and his watery eyes widened in indignation he quickly realized his mistake.

“Yes sir. Sorry sir.” He bowed his head and clenched his teeth. It would be over soon; all he had to do was survive the ceremony and then he could escape this dreadful company. It would be over soon. He chanted this like an internal mantra. 

The master of ceremonies paused and seemed for a moment to study him with some interest before suddenly snapping to attention, as though remembering himself, and turning to face the waiting audience. “If there are no objections from our esteemed guests...” he paused dramatically and turned his head slowly, taking in the sight of his audience, “then...let the branding begin.” Jim felt the blood plummet from his face into his belly. Branding? The master of ceremonies held his hands up to the right of his face and clapped loudly, a sickly smirk spreading across his face. “Bring forth the creature.” Jim exhaled slowly and concentrated on keeping his gaze facing forward. Some of the women in the audience sported bizarre up-dos and one was wearing a large, purple hat with scarlet feathers protruding from it; they looked ridiculous.He allowed his gaze to flicker down towards his own attire; he was one to talk. 

The creaking and cracking of splintering wood caused his heart rate to bump up a notch but still he did not turn around. He fought the urge to chew on his bottom lip, while in his mind he began to desperately recite the speech that he would soon have to deliver. 

Someone was clearing their throat loudly. Was that meant for him? “Mr. Kirk?” the Master of Ceremonies was behind him, beside the crate. Jim swallowed and clenched his fists. “Please turn around and take the lead.” For a moment the words made no sense in his jumbled mind and he stood staring blankly at the crowd; none of whom were paying him any attention, for their interest was directed to the creature emerging from the crate behind him. And then something snapped in his mind and he twisted around fiercely to face his fate. 

 

~*~*~*~*~

The sound of splintering wood filled him with dread and trepidation and yet, for his crumpled, cramping limbs the sound was a welcome promise; he was to be released from his suffocating prison. It was impossible to tell through the blindfold that was secured tightly over his eyes how many men were endeavoring to open the crate, or how far along they were with their efforts. He shifted impatiently and felt hot pain shoot through his limbs causing him to cry out into the gag that muffled the noise. Odd that he should feel grateful for the piece of cloth that’s sole purpose was degradation but in that instant he did. For beyond his tiny prison his sensitive Vulcan ears could detect voices. Logic told him that if he could hear them then they would be able to hear him, and although pride was a useless emotion for one such as he, he couldn’t help but cling to the notion that even he, a lowly half-breed slave, deserved at least a semblance of dignity. He shifted again, and once again the pain lashed through him, he groaned weakly and tried to concentrate on keeping his cramped limbs in a fixed position. Blindly, he pulled his shackled arms up towards his face, rested his forehead against them and focused on his breathing.

Fear at this point was building rapidly throughout his very core; he was on an unknown planet, half starved, drugged and completely incapacitated. His mind momentarily delved back to his recent degradation at the hands of the slavers; he shuddered. Torment and humiliation were themes he’d grown accustomed to throughout his life in service, but never before had he been forced to face the brutality that the slavers had unleashed. He felt a pang of gratitude and longing for his previous master, and then shook the thought from his mind. Ridiculous. He had hated that man beyond all others, the man that had stolen his innocence and prevented him from developing as a true Vulcan should. But he had faced that, just as he had faced the slavers and still he lived. That surely attested to his own strength of will. The thought comforted him for the briefest of moments, only to be shattered as cold, clammy hands fastened themselves around his arms and legs and dragged him from his prison. He screamed in agony as his legs were forced from under him and terror ricocheted through his entire being, forcing the calm of seconds earlier from his feral, untrained mind. 

“Mr. Kirk? Please turn around and take the lead.”

English...human...

The voice was unnaturally high pitched for a male, and something told him that the speaker used it specifically for the purpose of entertainment. That thought caused his breath to catch. He’d already experienced the human concept of entertainment...had been the primary source of it...he felt his mind doubling backwards, towards primitive, unconsolable terror. No. He was of Vulcan; within him was the power, the knowledge...he could control his fear, he would find a way. Again he forced his mind back to his breathing. 

The blind-fold was pulled gently from his face and he felt a hand framing his eyes to protect them from the harsh light. “What is it?” a young male knelt before him, staring in unconcealed wonder. He was handsome, for a human, and seemed to exude gold and warmth. Glittering intelligent eyes the colour of honey roamed over him. Spock lowered his head. In his hands, the human held a lead that was attached to the contraption that bound his forearms together. Was this to be his new master?

“Zaita scum!” the high-pitched voice of a moment earlier cried, “do you know nothing? It is a Vulcan, one of only a few left in the universe!” The youthful man did not react to this, instead he reached behind the slave’s head with the hand that had previously shielded his eyes and began to unfasten the gag. 

“Do you speak English?” he asked as he struggled with the cloth and then suddenly it was loose. “Do you understand me?” he placed the soiled cloth carefully on the floor beside him.

“Yes.” He croaked, and then, before shame could prevent him. “Water...please.” The man’s face darkened and for a moment he thought he might lash out, but he quickly realised his mistake as the human turned his anger not on him, but towards the fat, high pitched man that hovered twitching a few feet away.

“Bring him water.” He demanded. “Why has he been treated this way?” 

“YOU DO NOT COMMAND ME!” the other man screamed, his rage so sudden and so ferocious that both human and slave flinched in unison. And then the rage evaporated as suddenly as it had appeared. “You may water him, or do whatever else you fancy, after the ceremony.” He turned away. “Bring the irons, and a pain inhibitor.” 

The human gulped visibly and then turned back to him. “What is your name?” he whispered. 

“Spock.” he answered quietly. 

“Spock...” the man repeated and then sighed. “Do you know why you’re here?” Spock shook his head honestly. The man’s face fell and some of the warmth seemed to leave him. 

“The pair, as tradition dictates, will now be branded.” Spock heard the other man, who seemed to hold some power in this place, call out, and then for the first time he became aware of the other humans in the room, watching him in unabated wonder. 

“Branded?” the golden human shouted. “No-one said anything about...”

“It is tradition!” the pompous leader cut over him. “You really are a mindless fool!”

“Well...forgive me for not being privy to the barbaric rules of this twisted...”

“Enough!” the portly man, moved towards the angered youth, as an attendant handed him a syringe. “Hold out your arm.”

“Why?”

“Just do it. You are shaming your clan...do you want them to be punished before the tournament even begins?” The golden man fell silent and then reluctantly lifted his arm. The other immediately administered the anesthetic. 

Had the entire scenario not been so terrifying and had he not been crippled in pain from his earlier abusers then Spock would have been fascinated by the strange behaviour of these men, but, as it were, his drugged mind made it impossible for him to feel anything but raw, primitive fear. 

“Good...now as tradition dictates you will be branded with your new sigil; this will identify you both as Master and Champion. Don’t worry, the drug will prevent you from feeling any discomfort.” Spock watched, horrified as another two attendants appeared each holding hot pokers with burning emblems attached to their ends. “Hold out your hand.” The golden human seemed confused but shakily complied. Spock flinched as the other man immediately grabbed one of the pokers and pushed the burning emblem into the man’s palm. The sound and smell of scorching flesh was sickening. 

As the iron was lifted from the tender flesh, the human stared down at his marred hand in horror. “It’s a star.” He mumbled, shock obviously numbing his brain. Still, as far as Spock could tell the man had not been physically hurt by the branding. 

“Yes,” the portly man clapped his hands together, “all pairs must have their own unique sigil...this mark will be used to identify you both and will be logged in the official registry. Now,” he paused for dramatic effect, “you will make your oath...and brand your champion.”

The human didn’t raise his eyes, as he continued to examine the burned flesh on his palm. “Yes,” he sounded faint. “My oath...” 

The leader cleared his throat. “Stand up Mr.Kirk.” The golden haired youth complied, his blank eyes searching the crowd, but for what or who, Spock could not guess. Suddenly the clammy hands of the attendants were on him again, forcing him to stand. He closed his eyes as his abused legs shook under his weight; despairing at the indignation that stumbling would bring. He felt the humans adjusting the straps on his forearms, leaving only his wrists bound. Rings with chains attached to them were then placed on his finger tips, and the chains were pulled back and fastened to the cuffs that secured the contraption to his elbows. He bit back a cry of pain as he felt his fingers come close to breaking point and his up-facing palms were exposed. He wondered if the humans were aware of the sensitivity of Vulcan hands, and then reprimanded himself for making the illogical assumption that they would even care. 

Next to him the human, Mr. Kirk, was watching him in horror, as the attendant holding the other poker, carefully placed it in his unbranded hand. The human looked around expectantly. “Where is his drug?” he directed the question at the fat leader, who rolled his eyes in obvious disgust.

“The slave must endure the branding without anesthetic. It symbolizes the first part of his training.” He spoke through gritted teeth. “Now if you would proceed with the oath...”

The human looked terrified, “What? You’re sick. He’s barely conscious as it is and now you want me to...” 

“Are you squeamish Mr. Kirk?” the leader laughed and behind him a few members of the audience also murmured in amusement. Spock felt as though his mind had jammed. He was a Vulcan, he should be able to block the pain and the fear; to accept it and move past it and begin to logically formulate a plan. But he didn’t know how, clenching his jaw, he felt the familiar sting, the internal whisper that jibed failure. The sadistic leader continued to taunt the golden human. “You are to be his master. You are to train him. Do you understand what that means? He is to be broken. Do you imagine to break him with kindness?” The laughter in the room grew louder. “Or do you think that you can survive in this tournament with a slave that has not been broken? Is that it?”

“I...” the human had gone pale, “no..I...”

“Well?” the other smirked triumphantly, “which is it?”

The human bowed his head and stared again at his branded palm. “Forgive me.” he said quietly. Spock couldn’t explain how he knew it, but the apology although seemingly directed at the other human, was in-fact meant for him. He closed his eyes and tried to prepare himself for what was coming. “I am ready.” The golden human straightened suddenly, his voice ringing clearly throughout the room. “Hold him still please.” 

Spock felt the attendants tighten their hold but he paid them no attention as he watched the man that was about to disfigure his sensitive hands, turn to the audience. He paused and then began to recite his oath:

“I, James Tiberius Kirk, claim this Vulcan by the name of Spock to be my Champion. From this moment forth I accept all responsibility for this privileged slave. I will mould out of this worthless being a victor, a performer, a scholar, a warrior, a jester. I will create a tool to better our noble society; his victory will be mine. I James Tiberius Kirk, from here forth bear all responsibility for his actions and accept reward on his behalf, and also punishment, should the council see fit. For now he is my Champion, I accept possession of him: mind, body and spirit, and will henceforth exercise my right as master to train him with whichever methods I see fit.” 

The human then turned gracefully back towards him and without hesitation forced the scorching metal onto his exposed flesh. The pain was immediate, blinding and beyond anything that Spock had ever imagined or previously experienced. It seared his skin and flooded his senses. His ears burned from his own screams as every cell in his body seemed to catch fire. He thrashed madly in his restraints as he begged for mercy and tears streamed down his face. Time seemed to melt into itself, as the agony on his palm refused to cease. He would lose consciousness soon, he had too, closing his eyes he prayed for it, prayed for oblivion, but it did not come. There was a slapping sound and he roared as the throbbing pain intensified, he opened his eyes to find the human’s branded hand pressed firmly against his own. Apologetic eyes stared down at him and only then did he realise that he’d crumpled to the ground.

“The bonding is complete.” He dimly heard the pompous, fat man speak as his vision began to swim.

It’s going to be ok. 

The sensation...familiar yet alien...a mind-link...he thought he’d forgotten...not since his youth had he felt anything like it...not since his parents from whom he’d been forcefully separated...a vulcan mind-link...it was impossible and yet... 

I’ll take care of you...just stand up and let me get you out of here...

Through his tears he could see the blurred outline of his new master, could feel the man attempting to pull him to his feet. 

You’re mine now Spock...I’ll fix this somehow...just stand up... 

Clenching his eyes shut he summoned the last of his strength and tried to obey the silent request, but the effort proved too great for his abused body and poisoned mind and as he lurched upwards he immediately felt himself himself fall unceremoniously forward both into unconsciousness and into the warm embrace of James Tiberius Kirk.


	2. Chapter 2

Jim wanted to run, to flee from the cruelty and the madness and the mocking whispers that surrounded him as he held the lifeless alien being in his arms. He could almost taste the crisp evening air as he envisioned himself dropping the creature...the Vulcan...and running from the building into the city night. But it wasn’t to be...this Vulcan...this Spock...was now his responsibility. He pulled the limp body, that weighed far less than he suspected it should, tighter into his embrace. 

They were all watching him; for them it was the beginning of the exciting charade, the sadistic circus that they lapped up into their tiny upper-class brains. Jim didn’t care; he’d played his part and now he had to escape. The temporary quarters that less than an hour earlier had seemed foreign and uncomfortable transformed themselves into paradise in his mind’s eye. “We’re leaving.” He said quietly to no-one in particular, and scooped the Vulcan into his arms and began to move back towards the staircase. There were protests coming from the occupants of the room but he was numb to them; the only sound that he was aware of were the echoes of Spock’s agonized screams that existed only in his mind. Screams that he had caused. The whole affair sickened and disgusted him but now he too was tarnished; part of the sordid game; part of the problem. There had been no choice of course; Spock would have been mutilated regardless of whether or not it was him holding the branding iron, but that did nothing to ease the self-disgust that made his very heart feel as though it were made of lead. 

“Jim! Jim dear your robes!” His mother’s distressed voice pulled him from his daze. He paused briefly to turn to her.

“My robes?” His voice sounded distant to his own ears. “What about them?”

“You’ll ruin them!” the woman sounded close to tears, “it’s filthy Jim! Put it down...you might catch something...oh look at the dirt on your beautiful clothes!” She was partially reaching for him but was visibly too afraid of the alien in her son’s arms to make contact. 

Jim felt an icy fury spread through him as he stared at the woman that had raised him in disbelief. “Mother?” the question left his lips loaded with more unspoken sentiment than the woman could realize. “He needs help.” He glanced down at the unconscious man, and realized that his mother was correct; the Vulcan was filthy. Jim didn’t care. 

“It’s an alien, James.” She protested.

For a moment he was at a loss as to how to respond and then: “When did you become one of them?” he whispered, so that only she could hear it. Turning to no-one in particular he called out, “this woman is not to be allowed into or near my quarters.” And without so much as a glance back he stormed for the staircase. 

“James! James!” her screams of protest didn’t reach him, as he pulled Spock closer to his chest, and made quickly for his rooms. 

The doors, he was shocked to find, had been flung open and as he drew nearer he could make out voices coming from within. “Who the hell are you?” he demanded of the first being he encountered upon bursting into the room. She was female and in her arms she carried a large, ornate trunk. She frowned at the abruptness of his tone and immediately dropped the item unceremoniously to the ground. Jim automatically glanced at her wrist to determine her tier. The band that encircled it was yellow, placing her a level above him.

“You were not expected back from the ceremony so soon.” Was all she offered in response. 

“What is all this?” his eyes roamed the other occupants of the room, four in total, all of whom had been in the process of transporting unknown items into his, supposedly, private quarters. 

“Your equipment,” the woman sighed and crossed the room, stopping before a dark, rectangular object that Jim had been told was a computer screen. She picked up what looked like a brown leather journal and returned to him. “Here,” she handed him the book, which he accepted with some difficulty due to the incapacitated Vulcan still in his arms, “this contains instructions and the codes that you will need to access the computer databases. There you will find answers to all of your questions.” She signaled to her colleagues, who immediately ceased their activity and hurried from the room. “We will leave you now.” Her tone almost robotic, she turned to leave.

“Wait,” Jim felt foolish at the urgency in his voice, “his cuffs...I don’t have a key.” 

She blinked, surprise evident in her almond eyes. “You wish to free him from his binds so soon? That may not be wise.” 

Jim scowled. “I didn’t ask for your opinion. Just give me the key!” The woman’s eyes widened but she seemed unperturbed by his tone. She shrugged and reached into the pocket of her linen trousers. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you.” She said. “This acts as a master key; you will find other...restraining devices in the trunk.” Jim clenched his jaw but said nothing as he reached awkwardly for the key and then moved to place an unconscious Spock on a pillow pile that he assumed was intended for lounging. The woman meanwhile had walked towards a table which was now scattered with various unrecognizable objects. Picking up what looked to be a small, metal briefcase she walked back towards him and placed it on the floor beside the pillows. “You’ll find more anesthetic in there.” She said emotionlessly. “The exact amount has been measured to last until your wound has healed; if you waste any or give it to the...” she looked cooly down at Spock, “...slave then you will feel both the pain and discomfort of the healing process. Goodbye.” And with that she was gone. 

Jim let out a breath that he hadn’t known he’d been holding, as his eyes roamed the broken form that lay before him. Spock’s attire consisted of only a single faded, grey garment. The torn fabric was stained and crusted with a dark green substance on top of the general dirt and filth that indicated that the slave had not washed for a long time. Reaching carefully for the Vulcan’s bound arms Jim took in the sight of the injured palm. Where his own brand was red and inflamed, Spock’s was green. The alien had green blood? He frowned and began to work on unlocking the chain that forced Spock’s fingers back before slowly pulling the rings from his fingers. He glanced at his slave’s dirty clothing once more. Through the tears in the fabric he could make out more wounds, some of which had started to heal and crust around the filthy material. The contraption that held his arms in place consisted of an array of straps and was somewhat complicated in its design. Jim hesitated momentarily as the woman’s warning came back to him: was he doing the right thing in releasing Spock from his binds? He shook his head and continued with his task; he had to follow his instincts, and his gut told him that the Vulcan was not dangerous. 

When the slave’s arms were free Jim gently rested them on the pillows by the man’s sides and then reached for the small, metal suitcase containing the pain inhibitor. Opening it carefully he pulled out a sheet of paper. Administer the anesthetic twice daily. Was all it said. Jim bit his lip. “What are you thinking?” he whispered to himself, “this is nuts.” He looked again at Spock’s injured palm and tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “Don’t be such a coward James.” He muttered and reached for one of the needles. It struck him that he’d never injected anyone before; what if he did something wrong? Lifting the object to eye level, he raised his brows in surprise as he noticed a small red light. He turned the item so that the needle pointed towards the skin of the Vulcan’s arm. Upon closer inspection he realized that the skin there was mottled with bruises. He sighed. What could this unfortunate creature have done to merit such abuse? 

Slowly and carefully he guided the injection up the man’s arm until eventually his suspicion was confirmed and the light on the device changed to green. “Here goes.” He mumbled and jabbed Spock in the arm. 

Chestnut eyes snapped open in obvious alarm and a hand grabbed him by the wrist with crushing force. Jim let out a yelp of surprise as Spock’s grip seemed to tighten by the second. “Let go!” he demanded but his tone was more desperate than authoritative, “I’m trying to help you.”

“On the contrary you are the one responsible for my disfiguration.” The deep, baritone response sounded calm in spite of the furious death grip that he currently had on his new master.

“Please...Spock...” Jim gasped. Due to the anesthetic still in his system the sensation that he felt could not quite be described as pain but it was highly uncomfortable. “You’re going to break my wrist!” Was it broken already? It was difficult to tell. 

The Vulcan tilted his head to one side. “Are humans so very fragile?” Jim couldn’t ascertain whether he was being mocked or whether the alien was asking a sincere question.

“Yes!” he said through gritted teeth. “We are.”

Suddenly Spock lifted his injured hand to face height and stared at it in wonder. “The pain has diminished.” He said quietly, releasing his hold on Jim’s wrist, he quickly turned to inspect the spot on his arm where he’d been injected. Frowning he turned his attention back to Jim, who was rubbing his wrist warily. “My strength is returning, this indicates that you have failed to administer the sedative which I do not doubt has been provided to you as my new master.” He sounded puzzled. “Not only that but you have released me from the restraints that bound me.” He hesitated, and then said quietly as though to himself, “Perhaps you wish for me to struggle.”

For the first time Jim allowed himself to properly take in the sight of his new Vulcan slave. His hair, ebony in colour, hung below his shoulders, and had it not been so matted and tangled Jim suspected that it would have been quite lustrous. High cheek bones and slanted eyebrows, his whole face seemed to be made up of harsh angles, and yet there was a beauty in it that Jim couldn’t deny. The only features that really distinguished him as an alien were his ears which sloped upwards into pointed tips and the greenish hue of his complexion. He was taller than Jim and painfully slender; another indication of the abuse that he had faced. But the feature that most captivated Jim’s attention were Spock’s eyes. Pride, intelligence and undeniable fear, they seemed so human. Jim swallowed. “Struggle?” he repeated.

“When you take me.” Spock said, his tone matter-of-fact.

“Take you where?” Jim asked dumbly. As his inner voice screamed in disbelief that he was currently conversing with a being from another world. 

Spock seemed completely taken aback by the question. “Forgive me,” he said quietly and Jim saw the fear in his eyes intensify, “I do not understand human humour. I was referring to the act of sexual intercourse.”

Jim felt his jaw slacken as he stared at Spock in his dirty, blood stained clothes. His eyes swept over the emaciated frame and the bruises and raw skin on his arms and legs where he’d been bound. He felt sick. “You think that you’re here to...” he trailed off; unable to formulate the words. Shaking his head in disbelief he stood up and stared down at his new companion. “You’re filthy and you’re injured. I’ll get you that water now and then you can have a bath.” Not giving Spock opportunity to respond, he hurried away in search of a jug and glass.

Sex slave. The words jammed into his brain as he shakily filled the water jug. A male sex slave. Was that common practice off world? Surely the federation would not approve of or condone the institution of slavery. Spock’s voice and demeanour had been perfectly controlled when he’d questioned him and yet the fear in his eyes had been unmistakable. Sedatives...chains...pity stirred in his chest. “You are to be his master. You are to train him. Do you understand what that means? He is to be broken. Do you imagine to break him with kindness?” The master of ceremonies’s words came back to him as he walked slowly back towards Spock. The Vulcan simply sat, eyes cast downwards, hands placed carefully on his legs which were crossed under him. Anger and indignation flared in Jim’s heart as he stared at the unfortunate being that had been delivered into this nightmare with him. He would not; could not hurt this man further. 

He was James Tiberius Kirk; a man of principles, courage and intelligence. Those traits had gotten him here and he would be damned if he would sacrifice them now. He would train Spock but he would do it his way or not at all. He knelt down quietly before the Vulcan and placed the jug and glass on the floor next to the abandoned metal case.

“Here.” He said quietly, painfully aware of the awkward atmosphere surrounding them, “have as much as you want.” Spock stared longingly at the water and then his eyes darted up to meet Jim’s own; uncertainty and distrust. Jim sighed; “look it’s not poisoned, just drink it. You’re going to need your strength. I’ll go fix you that bath now, okay? And then we’ll see about getting some food. I don’t know about you but I could eat a horse!” He offered what he hoped was an encouraging smile and then turned to leave Spock to consume the drink in private.

“Your name is James Tiberius Kirk?” The voice was steady despite Spock’s obvious discomfort. 

Jim cringed; the Vulcan must have picked up his name from the speech he’d made. He turned slowly. “Yes,” he said quietly, “I’m...sorry about what happened back there, Spock.” He cleared his throat. “You...er...you can call me Jim.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You do not wish for me to address you by your appropriate title?” 

Jim crossed his arms and leaned back on his heels, a small smile on his lips. “Title? I think you’re confused Mr.Spock.” The eyebrow quirked higher. “I have no title, I’m just Jim.” Spock seemed to be engaging in an internal struggle sparked somehow by Jim’s words. His lip quivered slightly as his eyes narrowed in contemplation. Jim relaxed his arms. “Problem?” he tried to sound gentle.

“Indeed.” Spock answered slowly. “Are you not my new master?” Jim tried not to flinch as an intense displeasure surged through him. Colour sprang to his face betraying his feeling. “Forgive me.” Spock lowered his eyes again. “I have angered you.”

“No,” Jim turned away, ashamed by the blush in his cheeks. The urge to run was upon him again, he clenched his fists and forced the thought from his mind. “I am angry Spock,” He choked, “but believe me when I say that you are not the cause.” He paused momentarily but it would seem that Spock had nothing further to offer and so, suddenly desperate for a few moments of solitude with his thoughts, he hurried into the bathroom and slammed his palm against the panel controlling the automatic door.

~*~*~*~*~

Water, a bath, food...the human’s conduct was highly illogical and Spock found it greatly disturbing. He picked up the glass of water and inspected it suspiciously. 

13 years, 3 months and 9.89 days had passed since he’d been dragged from his mother’s arms. The sound of her desperate screams fading as he was forced from his home and the damp smell of the sack over his head still haunted him. Prior to that moment, he remembered a home life of warmth, encouragement and love, marred only by the taunts and jeers of other Vulcan children who scorned him for his mixed heritage. His youthful ignorance had lead him to believe that he understood suffering due to him being shunned socially, but in the hands of the slavers he had quickly learned that his life on Vulcan had been privileged. 

“Your actions are in direct violation of Federation law!” he’d shouted as the sack was removed from his face. “As a free citizen of the Federation of Planets I demand that I at once be returned to my family on Vulcan.” His captors, humans, had simply laughed at his protests.

A young man with pale skin, white blonde hair and steely grey eyes had stripped him of his clothes, while informing him that he would fetch a higher price if he were sold naked. The man’s smile was cruel as he forbid his companions from harming the Vulcan child. “Not a scratch boys,” his accent was like nothing that Spock had ever heard before, “and he is to remain a virgin...the client I have in mind will have no interest in...damaged goods.”

After that they’d bound his arms tightly behind his back and locked him in a dark cell. Throughout the eight day journey his captors had scarcely visited him. On the rare occasion that they did so, they would seize him by the hair, force his head back and pour water down his throat until he choked. They’d then proceeded to mock him for his mess as he had not been allowed the use of any proper facilities. On the fifth day when two men visited his cell he’d begged them for food. They’d laughed at his request and then turned to whisper to each other. The next thing he knew he was being seized by one of them while the other released himself from his trousers. He wasn’t to tell, the man holding him whispered into his ear while stroking the tip in a way that sent shivers of terror through the frightened child, if he did they’d go back to Vulcan and do this to his mother. They’d then taken it in turns to pleasure themselves in his mouth. 

Humans. Those had been the first but not the last to humiliate and punish him. Not once had he been treated with kindness or compassion, not since his mother. He had quickly determined that she must have been an anomaly within her species, that would explain her inhabiting Vulcan and not another human world. In general the species were sadistic, vicious and without mercy. 

He raised the glass to his lips, relishing the sensation of the cool liquid as it eased the pain in the parched prison that was his throat. Vulcans had a higher tolerance than humans for thirst, sleep, hunger and pain, or so he’d been told. Upon his master’s death the slavers that had taken him had decided to test his thresholds, and he had not been allowed to hydrate himself for almost a week. The water, he decided, was not poisoned; the human, James Kirk, had at least been truthful about that. And judging by the fact that his astute hearing detected the sound of running water in a nearby room it would seem that the human had also been honest in his intention to prepare a bath. 

Spock reached for the jug and poured himself a second glass. His muscles, too long unused, ached in protest at the weight. It was obvious that the human had injected him with the pain relief medicine while he’d been unconscious, for the searing agony in his palm had diminished as had the pain of the other wounds that he bore as a result of the slavers rough handling. Still, the sensation in his arm as he held the item was unnerving. It suggested that the sedatives that had kept him docile and helpless for months now were still present in his system; the effort that he’d exerted in gripping the human’s wrist had almost completely depleted his strength.

“Spock?” the calm voice of the human reached him and he carefully replaced the jug on the ground and looked up. It was obvious that the human was trying to bait him, lure him with the pretense of kindness, but Spock was no fool. He’d experienced human games before. His mind flitted back to the moment before he’d lost consciousness; oh the pain, how it had muddled his frightened, half breed mind. He’d imagined that this human had connected with his subconscious somehow. Impossible. It was just another sign of his weakness; his human-half that impeded him in every way. “Your bath’s ready.”

Vulcans did not know fear. Why then did his heart pound faster at the human’s words? It was obvious to him that James Tiberius Kirk was a man of cleanliness and strong standards of personal hygiene; this of course would explain why he required Spock to bathe. He was not the type of man that would partake in sexual intercourse with a creature pitted in filth. Placing his uninjured palm on the ground he used it as leverage to push himself up, realizing a moment too late that his legs lacked the strength to support him. He heard the human cry out in alarm as he collapsed on the floor, knocking the jug and it’s contents over with him. He stiffened and willed away the panic that threatened to overwhelm him as he prepared himself mentally for the beating. But it never came.

“It’s ok,” Jim’s hands were placed firmly on his shoulders, “I should have realized...I’m sorry. I’ll help you, come on.” Once again Spock felt a great warmth, that had nothing to do with the man’s body temperature, coming from the human as he pulled Spock’s arm over his shoulder and pulled him upright. 

“Master...your robes...” he protested weakly as he recognized the sight of his own blood on the expensive fabric; the fall must have reopened some of his wounds. 

Jim chuckled as he half-walked, half-carried him in the direction of the bathroom. “Don’t worry about it,” he said his tone amicable, “they’re not really my style anyway.” Spock smiled and then jolted in shock, disturbed by the calming effect that this new master was having on him. 

“Woah...easy!” Jim tightened his hold as Spock swayed unsteadily. “Damn Spock...what the hell’s been done to you?” 

“I...” Did the human really want to know the explicit details of his abuse? He tilted his head forward so as to get a better look at the man that was holding him up. “Forgive me...was that a sincere question?”

Jim paused and his eyes widened in confusion but the slip was only momentary and his self-assured grin was quickly back in place. Spock noted again that his master was a very fine physical specimen indeed. “Relax Spock.” His voice was gentle and calming. “I’m not going to hurt you.”

Spock shivered and tried to pull away, the kind words somehow made him feel extremely vulnerable. “I am not afraid.” He said stubbornly. Jim unexpectedly burst into laughter at that.

“Well...that makes one of us.” He said becoming sombre as suddenly as his humorous outburst had occurred, “I for one have no idea what lies ahead.” He pulled Spock into the bathroom, “can you stand?”

“Unfortunately at the present time I find myself unable to operate at maximum capacity,” he frowned and tried to focus on his legs, “I do not believe that I will be able to maintain a vertical position for more than a few seconds should you withdraw your offer of assistance.” 

The bathroom, like the bed chamber that lay behind them, was ornately decorated. An illogically huge mirror stretched across the back wall forcing Spock to meet his own tattered reflection. Shame forced him to hurriedly avert his gaze and focus on the other pieces of the room. The basin, deep enough to bathe a child in, was made of an oddly reflective material that shone with a whole spectrum of colours. Spock frowned and leaned closer in spite of himself, keen to understand more about the properties of the material. The toilet in comparison was less grand, although next to it was a touch panel, the purpose of which Spock could only guess. But the centre piece of the room was undoubtedly the bath. Steam that bore a long-forgotten smell wafted from the large circular pool that was big enough to comfortably seat six men. Around it were a selection of crystal taps; some for water, others for various types of soap and other toiletries. 

“What is that fragrance?” he asked quietly, his hand clasping the human’s own as he struggled to bring forth memories of his distant youth, only to retract it in horror upon realizing what he’d done.

Jim just smiled and shrugged. “It’s a type of anti-septic soap, I think.” He wrinkled his nose, “it’s not the nicest smell but it might help with your...your wounds.” His hue became darker as red, human blood flooded to this face. Spock regarded him with curiosity. 

“My wounds cause you to feel embarrassment?” His heart began to pound a little more fiercely at the boldness of the question. He was practically begging this human to punish him for his insolence. His insatiable curiosity had always threatened to be his greatest downfall but there was something about this Jim Kirk that piqued his interest in a way that made it impossible to maintain his usual proud, silent demeanor. 

The human’s throat trembled, indicating that he had swallowed his saliva. This, Spock knew from past experience, could be an indicator of several contrasting human emotions; fear, anxiety or arousal. He shuddered and pulled away; a ridiculous act that he would no doubt be punished for later. This human had purchased him; denying the purpose would do nothing to ease the pain or shame of the rape that undoubtedly lay ahead. “No...I mean yeah...I mean....look you need my help, you can’t do this by yourself so...let’s get you out of these clothes, okay?” the words burned in his ears as he took in the hidden message. He’d heard words like them before; false words of comfort before the inevitable degradation.

A rough, calloused hand pulled at his bloody robe successfully pulling it upwards over his head, while the other held him in place. He closed his eyes and began to search for his own inner sanctuary; the only place in which he could hide during the attacks that had become a torturous constant in his life. But it was no use; he was too weak, exhausted and afraid. The slavers had found his limit and pushed him over it. He’d screamed until his voice had died; pleaded and begged; cried like a child. His people, had they indulged in such a primitive practice as emotion, would have felt shame and disgust upon seeing him so undone. And now it was to happen again. “Don’t.” He croaked, feeling tears of self-disgust prickling behind his tightly closed eyes. “I beg you.” His legs were shaking under his weight but he fought to remain upright. There had to be something he could say, some previously undiscovered way of reasoning with these humans, from preventing this man from debasing and abusing him. But his mind offered him nothing and so he simply stood there frozen naked and trembling.

“Spock.” The emotion in the man’s voice ripped through him like a blade through silk and his eyes snapped open. Jim Kirk stood before him, one hand still holding him while the other clawed through his own golden hair. His eyes were wide with horror as he took in the sight of his slave’s naked body. For several long moments the two simply stood staring at each other; one in fear, the other in disbelief. Until eventually Jim broke the silence by turning Spock in the direction of the tub and pushing him gently forward so that he could lean against it. He then pulled his own robes from his body, unveiling a sun-beaten, muscular frame; the body of a working man. “I’m going to leave these on.” He gestured towards his underwear, his voice calm and gentle as it had been before, only his eyes shone with a sorrow that Spock had not detected previously. It was with the faintest trace of relief that he noticed that the man was not aroused beneath the fabric. “Please, let me help you clean up.” Jim offered an upturned palm and waited.


	3. Chapter 3

Vulcan biology it seemed was not that remarkably different from his own, Jim thought as his eyes roamed the broken body before him. There was of course the green blood, bizarre but not hugely disturbing and the ears, which if he was honest he found quite...quirky. He concentrated on avoiding the man’s genitals but from what he could gather they were similar in appearance to his own. 

Had Spock not been tortured so thoroughly and for so long he silently admitted that the alien might be considered attractive. But, as it were, the man had been tortured. The skin, silvery grey in appearance was taut across Spock’s ribcage above a concave stomach, which in itself was a mess of dark green welts and what seemed to be burn marks. His thighs bore the marks of rope were his legs had no doubt been forced apart and held that way. 

Jim could feel revulsion, fury and pity all battling for dominance within his chest as he raised his eyes to the slave’s face. The Vulcan, who until now had fought to conceal his fear and pain behind a proud, somber appearance was shaking in terror, eyes clamped shut, lashes glistening with tears, his fists were clenched as he tried and failed to regain his composure. “Spock.” He croaked, with an overwhelming urge to comfort the wounded creature that was obviously anticipating further abuse at his hand.

How long had he suffered this way? What had he been before the slavers had ruined his body and left his pride and confidence in tattered shreds?

The answers to such questions would come later. For now Jim had to focus on getting this man clean, only after that could he properly attend the wounds, many of which appeared to be inflamed. Infection? How could he tell? He disregarded the thought and began to undress: Spock was in no fit state to tend to himself. He offered soothing words of reassurance before offering his hand to the slave. 

Spock was regarding him like a mad man at gunpoint, his eyes shifting back and forth as though trying to determine an escape route. “You wish to....bathe with me?” he asked suspiciously. 

Jim offered what he hoped was a comforting smile, his palm still upturned in an inviting gesture. “I just want to help you.” He repeated his intention calmly. 

“Is that a human euphemism?” the Vulcan’s voice shook, his eyes wild and feral. Jim tried not to remember the strength that the man had displayed when gripping his wrist earlier. 

“A euphemism?” he frowned, “for what?”

“Rape.” The exhausted man spat the word in a way that Jim felt was somehow unbecoming to his heritage. “That is what you do...that is why I am here!” His eyes were brimming with tears and he raised his arms to wrap them protectively around himself. “I am a man.” Jim could see the effort and the courage that Spock was expending in addressing him such. “I am a sentient being and I do not wish for this life.” Jim lowered his palm as a lump formed in his throat. What could he say? Spock pushed himself upwards and raised his head. “If you insist on humiliating me then...” he hesitated and then raised his dark, intelligent eyes that bore circles of exhaustion to meet Jim’s own, “then I ask that you cease this charade and admit your true intentions.”

For a number of seconds Jim could only blink in amazement and then he exhaled, crossed his arms and smiled sadly. “Well Mr.Spock.” He shook his head in wonder. “I can’t say that I’ve been acquainted with many...erm...” he waved his hand absently before him as he searched for the correct term. 

“Pleasure slaves?” the Vulcan interrupted bitterly. 

He pursed his lips and then nodded. “Yes,” he frowned, “so I don’t know whether or not such outbursts are...standard?” 

Spock narrowed his eyes, anger temporarily appeared to be easing his fear. “They are not.” He said curtly.

Jim nodded and shifted his weight from foot to foot. “I see.” He said and raised a hand to stroke his non-existent beard. “So am I correct in my assumption that you have not accepted your role as...” he didn’t want to say it.

“You are.” Came the same snappy response. 

“And that is why you have been kept sedated and in chains?” Jim concentrated on maintaining eye contact with the being before him. It was obvious to him that in spite of everything Spock was struggling to retain some pride and dignity. The Vulcan offered only a single nod in response. “You have also been savagely beaten and by the looks of it starved.” It was a struggle to keep the calm in his voice but he knew that it was necessary. He had to reach Spock, to make him understand. He sighed and raked his hand through his hair. “Look...I know that you have no reason to trust me but I’m not a bad guy.” Exhaustion was gradually creeping upon him. “I have never, and will never, force anyone to be with me sexually.” He noticed Spock’s eyebrow tweak at this. “Frankly I think that what’s been done to you is barbaric and I wish that I could reassure you that everything is going to be better and that I’ve saved you.” He swallowed. “But I can’t do that Mr. Spock. There is so much that I have to tell you and so much that I don’t understand yet myself.” Spock had stopped trembling and the anger too had evaporated from his expression, replaced instead with curiosity and wonder. “What I can promise is that I will not rape you or beat you or drug you. I will treat you with the respect that you deserve as a man.”

Spock raised his palm, displaying the inflamed green star. “You did this to me.” His tone was not quite accusing. 

Jim lifted his own palm. “I swear I had no choice.” He heard his voice crack with emotion. As the events of the day and the enormity of what lay ahead threatened to crush his courage. “I will explain everything to you in time.” He lowered his palm and offered his other hand again in invitation. “But for now please just let me help.”

Spock’s eyes darted between his face and the offered palm before shakily reaching out his hand. Jim jerked as the warm flesh made contact with his own and a stream of images and emotions broke through his subconscious.

Darkness...pain...dizziness...thirst...hands damp with sweat stroking his face...whispers of dark promises...the sensation of rough ropes been tied tighter pulling his legs apart...

He cried out and pulled his hand away as Spock lost his balance and tumbled forwards. Instinct caused him to reach out to save the startled man who grasped his shoulders to steady himself. Dark, exhausted eyes wide with surprise met his own and he became very conscious of the abrupt rise and fall of his own chest, as his arms and legs trembled. “What was...how did you...?” he gasped. “Was that real?”

Spock’s face seemed to transform entirely in that moment. The frightened broken creature disappeared and in its place was a man, eyes sparkling with hope and amazement as they stared into Jim’s own. “I felt it too.” He whispered, “I felt your...your feelings...your sincerity...” 

Jim gulped, “That was not what I felt.” He whispered. Spock raised a steady hand to his face and he fought the urge to pull away. The Vulcan carefully began to wipe away his tears. Tears? Was he crying? He flushed in embarrassment but a feeling deep in his gut told him not to retract from this man who even now was struggling to stand. 

“Forgive me.” Spock’s voice was stronger now. “It would seem that I have unintentionally shared a fragment of my memories with you.” He paused. “I did not know that it was possible to accidentally create such a link with a human.” He lowered his hand, his expression thoughtful. “I cannot promise that it will not happen again but I will endeavour to control this...bond.” He frowned and continued to inspect Jim’s face carefully. 

“Memories...bond...” Jim tried to clear his mind by shaking his head. He would deal with this later. “Ok...let’s just...” Spock simply nodded and allowed himself to be led into the water. The depth and temperature of the water was delicious. Jim sighed in appreciation and felt some of the tension leave his body, closing his eyes to savour the moment. “We could do with some of these in Zaita.” He mumbled, remembering the public bathhouse and the dirty, luke-warm water.

“What is Zaita?” Spock inquired quietly beside him. He opened his eyes to find the Vulcan watching him with uncertainty. Jim smiled and reached for a cloth before turning back to his strange, new companion. 

He reached out for Spock’s shoulder, “Turn around,” he instructed, “I’ll tend to your back.” Muscles tensed below his fingers but a moment later the Vulcan obeyed. Jim was about to launch into an explanation of the planet’s hierarchy system and his own personal feelings about it but his voice dyed in his throat as he was met with the expanse of broken skin that was Spock’s back. Fading scars and fresh wounds criss-crossed the smooth skin. He counted three welts that look agonizingly deep and were weeping, the edges of which were bruised and sensitive. The other injuries were less severe but Jim didn’t doubt that they were also causing the Vulcan a great deal of pain and discomfort. He cleared his throat and carefully lowered the cloth to the first wound. “Zaita is where I come from,” he explained, “we have ten tiers on this planet, each specializing in a different area. Tiers one and two, Zymph and Zamba, are scientists, doctors and engineers. I don’t know much about that sort of thing,” he admitted, “there are strict rules about class mixing. I know that they have access to unbelievable technology in the top four tiers. But below that we’re quite..primitive I guess.”

“You do not speak like one with a primitive mind, master.” Spock stated matter-of-factly. 

“Don’t call me that.” Jim flushed. “My name is Jim.” Spock said nothing. Jim sighed, he was satisfied that the first cut was as clean as it was going to be and then moved to the next. “Am I hurting you?”

“Negative. My pain receptors have been numbed due to the chemical that you administered into my system prior to my regaining consciousness.” 

“Of course.” Jim smiled as he continued the interrupted conversation. “I try to educate myself with every opportunity I get,” he explained, “but it’s difficult. In Zaita we’re just farmers. The work days are long and we only have limited access to educational resources.”

“I see.” Spock answered politely. “Am I correct in my assumption that members of the higher tiers are permitted greater access to these resources?”

“Yeah,” Jim didn’t bother to conceal the bitterness in his voice.

“You specified that there are ten tiers,” Spock continued, “where does Zaita fall in the hierarchal structure?” 

“Tier 8.” Jim could feel his muscles beginning to tense again defensively.

Spock tilted his head and turned so that he could face his new master. “I sense that you have misunderstood my reasoning for enquiring.” He said calmly, “I do not do so to place judgement on you.” He lowered his eyes, “my people have a great thirst for knowledge,” he said sadly, “and we have a great regard and respect for life. To purposefully retard an entire group of people and withhold knowledge from them is...morally despicable.” 

Jim laughed and lifted the cloth to wipe Spock’s arm. “You’re telling me.” He noted Spock tilting his head again; this alien being had a great deal of endearing idiosyncrasies. “Go on,” he said warmly, “I can see you have more questions.” 

The Vulcan raised an eyebrow in surprise. “It has been years since I have been permitted to make inquiries regarding subject matter that I find interesting or eluding.” He replied, “I find myself somewhat out of practice.” Jim laughed again. “But there is one matter that I find...confusing.” 

“You want to know why you’re here.” Jim finished for him and reached for a jug to scoop up some water from the bath. 

“Yes,” Spock hesitated, “I would also like to know why you are here...Jim.” 

“It’s a little complicated.” He poured the water carefully over Spock’s hair. The man flinched in surprise but said nothing. “It’s called The Tournament. I guess you could call it a game,” he refilled the jug and repeated the action, “entertainment for members of the higher tiers. See only Zookfa, that’s tier 6, and higher are allowed to watch the tournament. Five years ago tier 7, Zaidu, were allowed to start training but from what I hear they’ve never made it further than the third round...” He paused, “I’m not making much sense am I?” 

Spock raised his hands and pushed his wet hair from his eyes. “A tournament with rounds...how many?”

“Twelve.”

“And I am to be your Champion.” Spock reached out and tentatively gripped Jim’s arm in his own, pulling it up to inspect the star burned into his palm. “I recall the words that you spoke before you marked me as your possession.... ‘I will mould out of this worthless being a victor, a performer, a scholar, a warrior, a jester. I will create a tool to better our noble society; his victory will be mine. I James Tiberius Kirk, from here forth bear all responsibility for his actions and accept reward on his behalf, and also punishment, should the council see fit. For now he is my Champion, I accept possession of him: mind, body and spirit, and will henceforth exercise my right as master to train him with whichever methods I see fit.’ Those were your words am I correct?”

Jim wasn’t sure at which point his jaw had dropped but it hung now as he stared at the incredible creature before him. “You can remember all that?” 

“Indeed.” The corner of Spock’s lips twinged and Jim suspected that he’d almost smiled. “But I remain perplexed. Vulcan’s do not make good slaves. We are a proud, strong willed people. Even I...” he set his jaw fiercely, “I...” but he trailed off as an unknown memory clouded his vision.

Without thinking Jim placed his hand against the Vulcan’s forearm in a gesture that he intended to be comforting. Spock’s eyes darted up to meet his and suddenly he was being drawn in. 

“You’ve got no skills.” A bald man, dark in complexion laughed and lifted a bottle to his lips, his eyes focused somewhere behind Jim...no he was not Jim, he was Spock... this was Spock’s memory. Jim tried to close his eyes and withdraw but he was powerless, held captive within the alien body. Spock was terrified and exhausted, his intelligent mind picking up on the sadistic mood of his captors. The dingy room smelled like sweat and blood and sex. 

“Watch your mouth!” an angry voice from behind him shouted; the man that seconds ago had lashed him with the whip. 

Jim couldn’t be sure whether it was his own panic or Spock’s that was making it difficult to breathe. His arms were chained above his head, straining with the weight of his suspended body. A hand slapped his ass and only then did Jim realize that he was naked. The pain that shot through the prisoner at the impact caused his vision to blur, as something wet and sticky slid from his channel down his leg. The pain...Jim or Spock or both were crying now...his insides were raw from the abuse that was not over. 

“Just watch me...I’ll make this little Vulcan bitch scream louder than you did!” The man behind him sniggered. There was a crack and then a sharp sting against his back. Spock gasped and bit his lip, Jim could feel the man’s determination; he would not give in to them again. “You say I ain’t got skills! Bet I can hit him in the same place twice!” 

The man with the beer snorted. “That’s nothing, you little pussy. Hit him ten times on the same spot and then I’ll be impressed.” The other men in the room sniggered. “Ten credits you can’t do it.” 

The man with the whip laughed out loud. “You’re on, my friend.” The whip fell again, and true to his word it hit the same spot. And then again, and again.

Jim could feel the sweat on his face as Spock struggled not to cry out. The pain was blinding, and with each lashing the burning in his ass intensified as he swung helplessly in his chains. His lower lip bled from where he bit into it to suppress his cries of agony. How long? How much longer until they finally tired of him and sold him on? 

The other men in the room, keen to show that they too could hit the same target repeatedly also took their turns. Jim could feel the Vulcan’s tears flowing shamelessly but still he made no sound. Had Spock been human Jim had no doubt that he would have lost consciousness by now, as he the silent passenger tried failingly to scream and beg for mercy. 

And then the mood altered and there were hands stroking him, smearing blood over his chest and face. Teeth bit into his neck and ears and then...then...Spock finally screamed as one of the men entered him. The man was pressed against his wounded back, the pressure on the open lacerations alone would have been enough to drive Jim to madness. But that paired with the agony of being forced to bear the man’s cock in his bruised, raw hole was too much even for the Vulcan. The sound was terrible as the defeated man cried out, nonsense spilling from his bleeding lips, pleading for mercy and sobbing like a child. 

The men just laughed and took him again and again and again.

 

Jim was no longer in the bath, no longer even in the bathroom. As blind terror forced him from the room, he stumbled onto the ground and retched. The memory still playing vividly in his mind. The agonizing sensations ghosted his skin. He had been raped savagely, without mercy for hours. He couldn’t think, couldn’t breathe as the shock of the suddenness of the attack caused him to tremble. He pulled himself into a seated position and hugged his knees...his knees that were tanned and unmarked. The knees that belonged to James Tiberius Kirk of the Zaita Clan, Tier 8 of Naius II. It hadn’t been real; it had simply been a nightmare. No. That wasn’t quite true was it? He pulled his hair in an effort to calm himself. It had been real. It had happened to Spock. He shuddered a quiet sob, his face and neck already drenched with tears. 

“Jim?” A nervous voice from close by. He raised his head to find an apologetic Vulcan kneeling naked before him, his chest rising and falling, his posture awkward, betraying the effort that it had taken for him to remove himself from the bath and follow his new master into his main quarters. “I...I am sorry.” His expression was a picture of concern as he stared at the man that had just completely come apart before him. 

“No.” Jim shook his head, the sight of the tortured man somehow snapping him back to his senses. “You’re not to blame.”

“The images that occur as a result of a mind-meld can appear real.” Spock said softly, “The emotional transference can be highly traumatizing for the receiver. I do not know why this is occurring between us. It has never happened before.”

“That...that really happened, didn’t it?” Jim asked shakily. Spock pursed his lips but offered no answer. “When?” Jim pulled himself onto his knees, his wet underwear sliding uncomfortably against his thighs. “When did they do that to you?” He wanted to reach out again but thought better of it. 

“That particular...incident,” Spock’s eyes had taken on a glazed appearance, “ended approximately 26.4 hours ago.” He was shaking, his wet skin glistening. 

Jim clenched his jaw and stood up suddenly. He didn’t miss Spock flinch but decided not to comment. It was no wonder that the Vulcan was terrified. That particular incident... How many incidents had there been? Rage pounded in his chest as he stormed towards his chest, flinging it open and pulling out two pairs of slack trousers. He wanted to tear those men apart for the pain that they’d inflicted on his slave. Spock seemed gentle, innocent...why would anyone want to punish him so? He marched back into the bathroom, pulled off his underwear and dried himself quickly. His head swam with exhaustion; he’d had no idea what it might mean to train a champion, but not once had he imagined that it would be like this. He’d pictured a savage alien beast that would need taming - something that he hadn’t wanted to do. But this, this was something else entirely. Spock was so human. No. He had a sneaking suspicion that Spock was more than human; better than human. He tilted his head back and exhaled; the fearful memory still threatening to overwhelm him. He had to pull himself together. Reaching for a second towel he walked steadily back to his Vulcan.

Spock hadn’t moved; his tattered back displayed for Jim to see, his arms hugging himself protectively as he shivered. Jim lowered himself to the Vulcan’s side and gingerly offered him the towel. Before long Spock was dressed in a pair of loose fitting trousers and perched awkwardly on the king-sized feather mattress while Jim searched through the trunks in the room for a medical kit. “How long have you been a slave?” the abruptness of the question surprised both of them as he returned with a reel of bandages. Jim smiled apologetically.

Spock raised an eyebrow in a way that despite the harrowing atmosphere Jim found rather amusing. “13 years, 3 months and 9.97 days.” He hesitated, “that is assuming that you do refer to the standard Terran measurement of time?” Jim nodded, choosing not to comment on the clinical accuracy of the time given. “I was in my 10th year when I was abducted.” Spock hesitated and then turned his honest eyes to Jim, who was attempting to wrap a bandage around his abdomen. “I can sympathize with your frustration at being prevented from educating your mind.” He said in a way that Jim might have almost called passionately. “I was unable to complete my education on Vulcan. Academically I was rather advanced but there are other...skills that I was far from perfecting.”

“Like what?” Jim inspected his work and deciding that it was satisfactory scooted back on the bed and crossed his legs beneath him. 

“Control of my own mind.” Spock clenched his uninjured hand. “It is the most important skill amongst my people; to control one’s emotions, hone telepathic ability and perfect the art of the mind-meld. But I was too young.” He was still shivering.

“You’re cold,” Jim turned about him in search of something to warm the man but found nothing, “get into the bed.” The fear that flashed through the deep, chocolate eyes was instantaneous. Jim pretended not to notice. “I’ll call someone about food...you must be hungry. Anything in particular you’d like?”

Spock raised both of his eyebrows at this. Jim chuckled. “Okay...anything that you don’t want?” A curt nod.

“Vulcan’s do not willingly partake in the consumption of animal flesh.” 

Jim nodded thoughtfully. “Fruit ok? Bread?” The Vulcan offered the tiniest smile in response. 

Moments later Jim found himself being blocked from leaving his room by a huge, burly guard. His eyes wandered to his wrist band: purple, tier 5, Zeech. “I...I was going to search for some food.” He babbled, shocked at the man’s proximity.

“You do not have permission to leave these quarters after 9pm.” The man’s voice was cool and robotic in a similar fashion to the woman who’d addressed him earlier. 

Jim blinked, “Oh...I...wasn’t aware...” usually he’d have responded with more bite but exhaustion and shock over the night’s events had drained him of his energy. To his surprise the man’s expression seemed to soften marginally.

“It is to prevent unauthorized contact between various trainers and champions.” He explained. “You’re hungry?”

Jim nodded. “Yeah and my...champion hasn’t been fed in a while,” sensing his opportunity he quickly finished, “we don’t require anything complex...fruit...bread...” The man frowned at him.

“Very well,” he said, his voice cool again, “please return to your quarters. I will ensure that the kitchens are informed.” 

“T-thank you.” He’d never conversed with anyone from Zeech before. All he knew was that they were factory workers, like those from Zookfa the tier below them. The courtesy, albeit somewhat forced, shocked him and he found it somewhat unnerving. Offering an awkward smile he retreated back into the room.

Spock’s legs were tucked securely under the crimson and gold covers but he remained upright and rigid as he watched Jim re-enter the room. “May we continue our conversation regarding this...Tournament in which you wish me to compete?” he asked, his tone flawlessly polite. Jim smiled weakly, scooped up the discarded water jug and went to refill it. 

“Sure,” he answered as he returned to the bed, “more water?”

“Thank you.” Spock inclined his head and then continued his questioning. “You mentioned that Zaidu clan of tier 7 began competing five years ago. Am I to assume that this is the first year that a member of Zaita has been allowed to compete?”

“Yeah,” Jim sighed and settled himself on the bed, purposefully creating a distance between himself and the Vulcan, “there were these tests that everyone between the ages of 18 and 28 had to take. We didn’t know what they were for,” he laughed bitterly, “most of us in Zaita can’t even read and write, so as you can imagine we were...suspicious.”

“And you scored highly in these tests?” Spock leaned a little closer to him questioningly. 

“The highest,” he couldn’t help but beam, “out of 65,000 candidates.” 

Spock’s eyes widened. “That is very impressive mast...Jim.” His lip twitched and he lowered his gaze. “It suggests that you are, what you humans would call, a genius.”

“Not really,” Jim shrugged, “like I said most of them couldn’t even read the questions.” He cleared his throat, suddenly embarrassed by the way that Spock was gazing at him with what he could only describe as respect. “Anyway, because of that they decided that I would be the first member of Zaita to be allowed to train a champion for the Tournament. But Spock I...” he looked up at the exhausted man that was drinking in his every word, obviously thrilled at being allowed to converse with another sentient being. Guilt began to loom within his chest and he pushed himself from the bed and began to pace the room. 

Spock observed him in controlled silence as he raised his hands to his face in the way that he always did when he was trying to calm his mind. “I need to be honest with you.” When he finally spoke his voice lacked it’s usual charisma. He turned back to the emaciated alien who appeared to be even more fragile due to the size of the giant bed. “I didn’t want this; slavery goes against my principles and I think the Tournament is a twisted joke. But the truth is I must train you Spock.” An intrigued lift of a brow was the only response that Spock offered. Jim sighed and continued. “If I refuse then the taxes levied against my tier will be raised...we are only just surviving as it is. But if I agree to train you and you do well then I will be rewarded...and so will my tier.”

“Do you speak of financial awards?” Spock asked dryly. 

Jim nodded. “Yes, amongst other things. We’d be allowed access to better technology, to heating equipment...winter’s only a few weeks away.” He shuddered at the thought, “I’m guessing that you’ve never experienced winter on Naius II?”

“You are correct.”

“Well...it’s miserable,” he shook his head, “but I’m going off point.” He walked around and crawled back onto the bed, folding his legs under him. “Listen Spock.” He said gently, “from what I’ve heard this Tournament is....brutal. I don’t know the finer details yet but what I do know, what everyone knows, is that only one champion survives.”

At first Spock didn’t react, he simply continued to watch him with the same controlled curiosity that he had before. “And if I refuse to compete?” he finally asked.

“It doesn’t work like that,” Jim clenched his fist, “they’ll force you to take part...it’s some sort of scoring system...if you don’t score highly enough then...then I, as your trainer, will be forced to publicly execute you.”

“What is the method of execution?” Spock spoke with a detached sort of interest. 

“That’s to be left to my discretion,” Jim scowled, “the more grotesque the death, the more the losing trainer saves face.” Spock’s eyes appeared to flash in fear at that. Jim finished quickly, “I assure you if it came down to that I would be sure to do it quickly and painlessly.” He tried to swallow the lump in his throat. “God I can’t believe I’m saying this.”

“You are a pacifist by nature?” Spock asked gently. 

Jim laughed. “I’m not afraid to fight, but I don’t believe in inflicting unnecessary torment, especially when it’s intended as a form of entertainment for a bunch of self-important, upperclass lunatics.”

Spock smiled. And for a moment Jim felt like his heart had jumped up several inches within his chest. What was that? He pursed his lips and felt his face begin to colour again. “What if...we win?” the alien’s eyes glittered in a way that Jim hadn’t imagined that they could. He gaped at the pale, angular face. Spock was beautiful. No amount of pain or suffering would ever truly take that from him. He felt his stomach flip with guilt at the thought. 

“Win?” he croaked. “Why then...then I’d be rich and...and you’d be allowed to live.” He leaned forward and stared into the alien face with awe. “Spock...are you saying that you’re going to compete willingly?”

Spock turned his branded palm and stared at it for a moment before answering carefully. “It seems, James Tiberius Kirk, that you are a victim in a world filled with cruelty and perversion. You have treated me with kindness, for that I am in your debt.” 

“So is that a yes?” suddenly Jim could barely contain his excitement.

Spock offered him another shy smile. “Affirmative Jim,” he said, “that is indeed a yes.”


	4. Chapter 4

Cold. It was his first thought upon waking. He pulled the covers up to his nose and winced as the fabric came into contact with his palm. The pain inhibitor was obviously wearing off. Slowly he shifted his legs and bit his lip as the burning deep within him spread up his spine. Would Jim offer him pain relief a second time? 

Jim. The night had ended with the human shyly admitting that he didn’t know how to control the room temperature and suggesting that they share the obnoxiously large bed. Spock had been far from happy about that particular plan, yet logically it was sound. The temperature on this moon was much lower than what he was accustomed to and even Jim, who was a native, had complained that it was unusually cold for the season. Worry had laced his expression as he muttered his predictions for the fast-approaching winter, and so Spock had agreed to share his new master’s bed.

It had taken him hours to finally relax and let sleep claim him, for despite the fact that the human had shown him only kindness he lay there rigid dreading the moment that Jim’s hands would start to wander. But, true to his word, the handsome young man hadn’t touched him, in-fact he’d fallen into a deep slumber 13.4 minutes after lying down to sleep. 

Spock suddenly realized that the human was no longer beside him in the bed. Shocked at the delay in his perception he bolted upright, momentarily forgetting about his injuries, but a millisecond later he let out an unconscious sob as his body seemed to assault itself from every angle. He clenched his eyes shut and waited for the discomfort to ebb away. Gradually it did so and he tentatively moved to get out of bed. Jim was no-where in sight. A fact that attested to Spock’s state of weakness and exhaustion: under normal circumstances he would not have slept soundly while another being moved around in close proximity to his unconscious self.  
An array of trunks, cases and packages had been carelessly abandoned in the center of the room. He frowned; should he unpack them for Jim? No. That would be a brash assumption on his part. No-one had informed him that they would be staying in this room...hotel? He couldn’t be certain. His eyes fell to the trunk closest to him. Atop it lay a gown. He raised a brow. Was that meant for him? Again he couldn’t be certain. But the temperature was intolerably cold and if he did not warm himself quickly he may face a respiratory disorder along with his other injuries. Jim would not be pleased if that were to occur, he reasoned, the human wanted him to recover so that he could perform his duty as his champion. That decided it, he reached for the robe and pulled it on.

The fabric was thick, white and comforting, a fact that only just compensated for the fact that he now looked rather...human. A full length mirror was located on the right-hand edge of the richly furnished room, he approached it slowly and frowned. Save for the brief encounter in the bathroom the previous evening it had been months since he’d last glimpsed his own reflection; even under the soft, heavy fabric of the gown he could see how emaciated his appearance had become. His hair, clean now thanks to Jim’s care, was still matted and tangled as it hung around his shoulders and his chin was bearded. His previous master would never had permitted facial hair or any body hair for that matter. He shuddered at the memory of the man becoming increasingly aroused as he waxed the hair from his slave’s chest, armpits and arms, he’d then moved to his legs and had finished with his genitals. After the man’s death he’d been sold to the slavers that had delivered him to Naius II; the men that had abused him without reason or compassion. They hadn’t bothered to maintain his body in any way. He raised a hand to his beard; it had to go. He raised an eyebrow at himself. 

“Fascinating.” he whispered to himself. Vanity was a human emotion and his own physical appearance had never been of much importance to him. Yet he found himself calculating the best way to maximize his aesthetic potential. Jim was physically quite appealing to behold; could he match that? Was this an example of masculine pride? He lowered his hand. That explanation did not seem logical; a hair cut and a shave would not make him Jim’s equal, for despite the humans display of kindness the fact still remained; they were master and slave. He exhaled slowly through his nose. Pondering why he felt the need to tidy up his physical appearance was an ineffective use of his mental prowess. And so, without giving the matter any further consideration, he turned and headed for the bathroom.

The process of self-grooming took longer than he’d initially anticipated. Most Vulcans, and humans too, he supposed would no doubt learn the practice during the onset of puberty in their teenage years. Spock had never been allowed such a freedom and instead had been treated like a prized pet. He smiled quietly to himself as the razor glided along his cheek revealing the smooth skin below; there was something undeniably rewarding about being able to do this for himself. 

When he was finished he cleaned the basin and then stared at his reflection in the giant mirror. Much better. He wondered if Jim would approve of his champion’s new look. Irrelevant. He chastised himself for the illogical thought and then sighed. The sedative it seemed still remained in his system, that paired with the multitude of injuries covering his body was causing him to feel somewhat light headed. It was incredibly frustrating; after months of ill-treatment, kept drugged and chained, frequently beaten and sexually assaulted, he finally had the freedom to move around on his own, yet his own body was denying him that right. 

Voices. He froze and focused his heightened Vulcan hearing on the murmurs that were coming from the bed chamber. It was not, he quickly deduced, the voice of one but of several. A tremor went up his back; the voices, although low, did not sound as though they belonged to Jim. 

“Anybody home?” came a drawling tone, no longer artificially lowered. Spock placed his arms behind his back and straightened his spine. Hiding in such an enclosed area would be futile; if the men truly wished to seek him out then they would be able to do so without difficulty. “Check the bathroom.” He heard the same voice order a command.

“There is no need.” He spoke then, his voice echoing slightly off the room’s tiled surfaces, “I will come to you.” He walked slowly from the room, maintaining his proud posture despite his highly informal attire. 

Five men, he observed, were spread throughout the room; Jim was not among them. Dread began to seep through him but he attempted to focus his attention on the new comers and not on his own deep rooted terrors. 

“So you’re the Vulcan.” He quickly identified the man that had called out to him earlier. Spock was no expert on the correlative relationship between age and the physical symptoms that human’s bore, but he estimated that this man may be in his mid-thirties. A thick, chocolate mop of hair suggested that he was not yet at the stage of balding, yet his face was beginning to display a number of slight lines and creases. The eyes that regarded him now in unabashed wonder were blue and although not explicitly menacing, Spock felt his heartbeat quicken in his side due to the fact that this human’s mood and intention were perplexingly difficult to read. “Is...er...” he glanced fleetingly at what Spock recognized to be a tablet that he clutched in his left hand, “James Tiberius Kirk here too?”

“Negative,” Spock took a careful step back as he noticed the four other men, all of which appeared to be far superior to the speaker in size and strength, positioning themselves in a manner that suggested that they were planning an attack. 

The speaker sighed and glided his fingers over his tablet, “very well,” he drawled, “I guess we’ll just have to do this without him,” he raised his piercing eyes to Spock again, “this may be a little tricky due to your hands being cuffed and all but...” Spock relaxed his arms and brought them from where they’d been hidden behind him. The colour immediately drained from the man’s face. “Good God!” He took a step back in alarm, “what the hell are they teaching those Zaita kids?” He raised his hands in a way that Spock assumed was intended as a peaceful gesture. “Now listen here,” he said slowly, “I’m a doctor and I’m here to check you over...now as your hands have not been restrained in the normal fashion it might make it easier to get you undressed, if you play along and do as you’re told.”

Spock felt his body recoil visibly at the strange man’s words. He wanted him stripped naked; he knew what that meant. “No,” panic gripped his vocal cords as he stumbled backwards until his back collided with a wall, wincing at the pain that the contact reawakened in his bandaged wounds. 

“Now listen,” the Doctor was moving towards him now, “I don’t have all day. We’re doing this the easy way or the hard way. I’ll ask you one more time: get undressed.” Spock shook his head frantically, as he raised his arms defensively, his eyes darting between the four burly men that were moving menacingly towards him. The Doctor sighed; “Very well, strip him and,” he turned and spotted the bed, “take him to the bed and hold him face down.”

The men moved as one, demonstrating their superior training. Spock could only thrash in protest as they overcame him without difficulty. Under normal circumstances he may have stood a chance, but not today, not with his aching limbs and the sedative circulating his system leaving him feeling dizzy and sick. He willed an adrenaline rush, but it did not come. Instead cruel fingers tore the gown from him, and two men seized him by the arms while another yanked his trousers down leaving him unbearably exposed. He closed his eyes; it was going to happen again. Where was Jim? Was this what betrayal felt like? He let out a strangled cry. Had the human tricked him after all? Lulling him into a false sense of safety, only to send his friends to humiliate him? His mind reeled; he would never be able to comprehend the behaviour of these barbaric humans.

“Take off those bandages too,” the Doctor called, “and be gentle damn it.” He then began to mutter to himself, his attention once again on his tablet.

A moment later Spock was being dragged towards the bed, he twisted and growled like a feral animal, but it was useless. The men were strong and unforgiving as each seized a limb and spread him out on his stomach, holding him in place for the Doctor that marched over now and placed a hand on his lower back. “Don’t,” Spock gasped, fear eliminating the last remnants of his pride, “I can’t...not again, please.” Begging had never worked before, but it was all he had. He closed his eyes and let out a sob. 

“That son of a bitch,” the Doctor muttered, “couldn’t even wait one day...” Spock could hear a quiet, high pitched whirring sound seemingly being emitted from some sort of device that the Doctor was using. The Doctor sighed and the sound stopped, Spock felt his shoulders stiffen as he awaited the man’s next move. “The dermal regenerator will take care of most of the physical afflictions. However, psychologically he’s...”

“What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Spock jerked as he heard Jim’s furious shout from the direction of the door. “These are my quarters, I did not give you permission to...”

“Correction,” the Doctor’s voice had lost it’s drawl and had taken on a snappy, argumentative tone, “these facilities do not belong to you; they belong to the high council. I’m a Doctor, hired by said council. I’m here to ensure that the alien slaves aren’t about to drop dead before the even Tournament begins.” He growled, “waste of my God-damn skills if you ask me.”

“That doesn’t explain why these four brutes are holding him down like that!” Jim snapped, pushing past the Doctor to face the man holding Spock’s right arm. Spock kept his face pressed against the bed as shame burned in his cheeks due to the compromising position that Jim had found him in. “Release him now!” 

“We don’t take commands from you, Zaita trash!” the man fired back, digging his nails into Spock’s arm in an effort to control his rage.   
r32; “Please,” Jim’s voice had taken on an air of desperation, “Doctor, he won’t fight you. Just release him and let me talk to him...”

“You mean threaten him?” the Doctor’s patience had obviously snapped, “did he fight you James Kirk when you fucked him until his insides were bloody and raw? Perhaps you only like to see him like this when you’re...”

“I didn’t do this,” something in Jim’s low, bitter answer caused Spock to shiver, “he was given to me in this state...I did my best but I’m no Doctor...he needs your help.” Spock felt the bed sag as the human sank down next to him, and a warm hand touched him gently on the back of the neck. “Spock, look at me.” He said firmly. Spock’s mind was spinning as he tried to make sense of his own turbulent emotions while simultaneously trying to understand the events that were taking place around him and the heated conversation between Jim and the Doctor.

“Jim?” he whispered, turning his head with difficulty to peer over his outstretched arm. Hazel eyes shone with anger and concern as they roamed his broken body. Spock knew that he should say something to his master but he knew not what the man wanted to hear. Jim smiled silently and stroked his hair soothingly. Spock closed his eyes confused by how such a simple gesture from a man he barely knew could calm him so.

“I swear he won’t be any trouble, Doctor.” Jim said determinedly, “please.”

The Doctor sighed and Spock heard another low beeping sound coming from another mysterious device, “Fine,” the man muttered, “guards release the Vulcan,” he hesitated, “and wait outside. But if you hear anything amiss you get your asses back in here, you hear me?” 

All at once the pressure was removed from his arms and legs, and Jim’s warm hands were on his shoulders pulling him upright. “It’s alright,” the human soothed, “you’re safe. The Doctor is here to help.” Spock couldn’t respond, he simply sank into Jim’s side as the man looped an arm casually around his back to support him. “Doc...you’re from Zymph?” He gestured at the golden wristband around the man’s wrist.

“Yeah what about it?” the man replied gruffly, his attention directed at a small rectangular device that he held in his palm. 

“So...you know things...things others don’t...” Spock could feel how rigid Jim had become as he unwillingly admitted his own ignorance, he continued hurriedly, “you understand rules and...and...surely the federation must have rules about this sort of thing?”

The Doctor looked up and raised an eyebrow. “Rules about what sort of thing?” he seemed mildly interested in Jim’s sudden outburst.

“The Tournament and...and...look Doctor, Spock the way he’s been...I mean you said it yourself!” Jim was becoming oddly flustered, “isn’t there anything to prevent this?” Spock felt a spark of gratitude at the man’s concern, although he couldn’t fathom the logic behind the human’s sudden attachment to him. 

“You mean rape, torture, starvation and chemical retardation?” Spock recognized the tone as sarcasm; an aspect of human humour that he struggled to comprehend. The Doctor laughed, “kid you’ve got to understand one thing if you’re going to survive this Tournament; it’s every man for himself. You might think you’re being noble or whatever but this here Vulcan is a slave.” Somehow his words didn’t quite seem to meet his eyes, “don’t get too attached...” Because soon you’ll have to kill him. The unfinished ending hung heavily in the air between them. Spock lowered his head; was this the moment when Jim would finally come to his senses?

“You don’t need to tell me about survival Doc,” Jim said coolly, his arm still wrapped around Spock’s waist. Was that a protective stance? Spock couldn’t be sure. “Anyway, we’re going to win this thing and then we’re going to get off this sorry excuse for a colony and join Star Fleet.”

Even Spock couldn’t fail to be alarmed by that sudden declaration! “Jim,” he muttered, “just...let the Doctor do what he needs to do...please.” 

The Doctor meanwhile was laughing in sardonic amusement. “You tell him, Spock is it? At least one of you as an iota of sense...Star Fleet....what the hell are they teaching you down in Zaita?” 

“Not as much as they should be!” Jim fired back, angry now at being shushed and mocked. “Fine. Do what you need to do,” he released his hold on Spock and stood up, “but no sedatives...he’s already pumped full of them...”

The Doctor worked silently and efficiently and Spock was relieved to feel the immediate effects of his treatment as he healed the lacerations on his back. However, when it came to healing some of his more intimate wounds he protested and tried to escape from the bed. The Doctor grabbed him around the waist and called for Jim to help. To Spock’s dismay his master suddenly seemed willing to cooperate with the Doctor. “No!” he shouted as Jim seized him by the shoulders and leaned forward to stare into his face. Calming words and comforting emotions seemed to flood his senses, Jim’s eyes were full of pity and Spock couldn’t stand it. “I’m not a child.” He spat and pushed the man roughly away, “unhand me!” he snarled at the Doctor, who immediately obeyed.

“Not exactly a poster boy for mixing the species are you Vulcan?” The Doctor folded his arms, “your people were disciplined and proud; I never heard of one causing such a fuss.” He sighed and turned to Jim, “I’ve done all I can but I’ll check back every few days. The rest of his injuries should heal with time, so long as you don’t decide to indulge yourself too soon.” He reached into his medical kit, “if you can’t control yourself at least use this.” He handed Jim a small tube of some substance unknown to Spock. 

Jim flushed scarlet. “I already told you that wasn’t me!”

The Doctor waved his hand. “It’s not my business. Trust me kid, plenty of these trainers abuse their champions sexually. It’s a stressful time and you’ll welcome the release of...er...tension.” Jim was practically shaking with indignation. “Anyway, if you can hold off for a while it’ll be better for him. Also, seems to me he’s got some psychological issues which are pretty much unheard of amongst his species. So watch yourself, kid.” He placed the last of his equipment into his bag and glanced at his watch. “Damn it I’m already running late...hell of a day this is turning out to be...”

“Wait!” Jim interrupted, grabbing Spock’s wrist and turning the palm up to show the Doctor. “Can’t you heal this too?”

“Kid, you got a lot to learn about the rules here.” Spock thought he could detect a sadness in the Doctor’s voice. “It’s more than my job’s worth to fix those. I’ve got to go.” He glanced between them and Spock suspected that he was going to say more but he simply shook his head and turned to head for the door.

“Doc?” Jim called again, “what’s your name?”

The Doctor froze and turned to stare at Jim, his face a picture of surprise. “Why...it’s McCoy,” he said, his voice uncertain, “Leonard McCoy.” 

Jim smiled and for a brief, illogical moment Spock felt as though anything were possible so long as this beautiful, gentle man remained in his life. “Thanks, McCoy...for helping Spock. I’m Jim.”

“Right...” Leonard McCoy, in Spock’s opinion, suddenly seemed to become very uncomfortable, “you...er...be good, Jim.” He shook his head again and hurried from the room.

Jim sighed and turned back to Spock, the mysterious tube still grasped in his hands. “Strange guy.” He shrugged and then surprise dominated his expression, “Why Mr.Spock!” he grinned, “you handsome devil,” he reached out a hand and grabbed Spock gently by the jaw and turned his face left and then right, “you clean up quite nicely.” 

Spock decided that due to the unnecessarily dramatic events that had already taken place that morning now might be an appropriate time to smile in acceptance of the compliment. “Thank you.” He said shyly.

His reaction, it seemed, was not as appropriate as he’d anticipated. For Jim immediately released him, the colour in his cheeks deepened and he began to babble. It took Spock a moment to realize that he was talking about the tube that McCoy had given him; which he’d come to assume was a type of lubricant. “I’ll just...er...put this...er...somewhere...” Jim hurried away to the bathroom still babbling his apologies.


	5. Chapter 5

The gentle rise and fall of the heavy, plush duvet, paired with the steady rhythm of the Vulcan’s breathing told Jim that the man had finally succumbed to his exhaustion. Mere hours had passed since the doctor’s visit and it was barely mid-afternoon but the toll that the morning’s events had taken on the slave had been evident. While Jim had been out trying to navigate the halls of the hotel in his search for their morning meal, Spock it seemed had taken it upon himself to clean up his appearance. And damn Jim would be lying if he said that the sight wasn’t breath taking. He’d thought Spock to be attractive, even with the tangled locks and overgrown facial hair, but now, now the man was mesmerising. Mesmerising and yet… his eyes caught the bowl of half-eaten soup that the Vulcan had discarded…malnourished. Spock’s beauty was marred by his starved appearance, the angles of his face, so naturally endearing, were painfully sharp; his eyes were sunken and framed with dark shadows; and his lips were a pale, grey hue.

 

Jim scooped up the bowls with a sigh and padded barefoot towards the door. Peering out, he noticed another guard, purple Zeech again. He waved the bowls at him with a hopeful smile, “any idea what I’m supposed to do with these?” he asked, pitching his tone as conversationally pleasant. It didn’t work. Angry, insulted eyes glared back at him.

 

“There is a wall shaft in your room.” The man spat, “Did you not receive the manual? Traipsing around, demanding food and then trying to force your filthy dishes on your betters.” The man paused, a thoughtful expression replacing the sneer, he folded his arms across his chest and continued in a low voice, “although I suppose it must be difficult, trying to access the information in the manual when you can’t even read…eating out of bowls instead of straight from a rotting carcass…this whole civilisation thing must be a real shock to Zaita scum like you. I’m sure your slave would be better suited to these tasks, shame he’s been spending so much time on his knees… poor thing… must be exhausted from all that taking it in the…” The bowls of soup smashed into the man’s face and soggy vegetables spilled down his front as Jim leapt on him with an indignant roar.

 

Words were beyond him as his fists collided with the bigger man, his face, his chest, his arms. A screeching noise, like static, filled his mind as all of the anguish and hatred and fear that he’d been trying so damn hard to suppress ripped through him. And then it was his face being punched, his jaw breaking, a knee to his gut.

 

Angry shouts, the sound of running feet, rough hands, kicks to his face, an agonising crack to his arm. Too many to be just one man. He was blind and deaf to all but the screeching inside of his head as they beat him and beat him. And then he was being thrown back into his room, to the distinctive sound of a door locking behind him. 

 

“Master?” Spock’s tone was impossible to decipher over the noise in his head. Jim groaned and tried weakly to push himself up onto his arms. Bad idea. The cry that escaped his lips caused heat to flush in his neck, as his face bounced off the ground. “Your arm appears to be broken,” Spock sounded very far away, “I must assist you.” Jim tried to protest, Spock was too weak, too damaged, he was in no position to…

 

And yet he was being lifted, half dragged, and half carried to the same cushions that he himself had laid Spock against the previous day. He laughed bitterly, or at least tried to, but the swelling in his face allowed little more than a bloody gargle to escape. “Master,” in his panic Spock had seemingly forgotten that Jim preferred not to be addressed as such, “I must…. Doctor….you have…. communication dev….master? master? Jim?” The words were swimming around Jim’s head, the voice familiar and yet….what had happened? Why did everything hurt so much? Why was the ground so soft? Who was that speaking? Wasn’t he alone?

 

Jim Kirk blacked out.

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

Concern for a human master was a highly illogical emotion that Spock had never imagined himself capable of feeling. And yet, as he pressed the cool, damp cloth to Jim’s swollen face, the worry swirling in his belly was impossible to deny. The events that had led to such an unfortunate occurrence continued to elude him. Jim had been making light hearted conversation as they’d eaten soup. Spock, conscious of the likeliness of causing himself digestive discomfort if he consumed too much had partaken in little over half of the bowl’s contents. The steamy, hot soup; the soft, comfortable bed; and the exhausting events that had brought him to this moment, somehow combined to cause a soporous effect and Spock had soon surrendered to his body’s need for sleep. He’d awoken to shouts and the unmistakable sound of men brawling, and then his master’s body had been thrown into the room, as unceremoniously as though he’d been little more than a sack of hay.

 

Spock glanced towards the door, for the seventy second time in the last nine and a half minutes. Why was the doctor taking so long? Jim had lost consciousness fourteen minutes ago and it had taken Spock a further three minutes to decipher the programming of the computer and use it to request medical attention.

 

A groan and Jim’s head was turning, his shoulders moving in a way that indicated that he wished to sit up. Without thinking Spock started to make gentle hushing noises, as he continued to wipe the man’s brow. Jim’s eyes remained closed even as he weakly tried to move. “Stay still,” Spock whispered, “or you risk causing further injury to yourself.” He placed the bloodied cloth on the ground beside him, “Master…if I may…” he felt the steady rhythm of his heart increase as the preposterous thought occurred to him, “Jim…I need to know what happened…the doctor will need to know...forgive me…” And without further hesitation he pressed his sensitive Vulcan fingers against the pressure points of the injured man’s face.

 

Cold. Stranded, Hungry. Never stopping, never changing. Where is the Vulcan? They’re going to kill him. Rape him. Beat him. I can’t stop them. So much pain. Spock…Spock…sleeping…he is sleeping…he is safe...why is there so much pain? How do we escape? Star Fleet is gone. No-one is coming. Can’t feel my arms. Am I in Spock’s mind? Am I next? Are they going to rape me now? So real. All of it so real. Still on my skin, in my skin, under it. Can’t stop them. No. No. No. Why does it hurt? How long have I been here? Is it over now? Why can’t I speak? Where is Spock? Did he do this to me? No. Yes. Yes. No-one else here, only Spock. Alien. Slave. Monster. Wanted me to pay. Someone always has to pay. Should have listened to mother. To McCoy. No. Frightened. Victim. Helpless. Not him. Not Spock. James Tiberius Kirk. Be better than them. Can’t. Not good enough. I can’t feel my body. Is this dying? Don’t let me die alone….

 

Spock wrenched back with a gasp, the dizzying thoughts still consuming his mind. Jim didn’t know who had attacked him…his memory and his mind were in such terrible disarray, a thousand sentiments overlapping and struggling for dominance. Spock shuddered; he had never experienced anything even remotely similar to the panicked, disordered thought patterns of his master. 

 

“Hello?” a voice from the door caused him to jump. He turned to see the doctor strolling, flanked by two guards.

 

“Doctor!” Spock breathed, standing up carefully, “Doctor…his mind….there’s something wrong with his mind!” He stared imploringly at the older man, who swept towards them, medical kit in hand.

 

“Step away.” McCoy said firmly, “If you know what’s good for you Vulcan, you will step away now.” Spock blinked in surprise and then the guards were upon him, wrestling his arms behind him back.

 

“Where’s your fucking cage?” one of them snarled, digging his fingers into Spock’s branded palm. Spock frowned; Kirk had given him another dose of the pain inhibitor, nullifying the cruelty that the guard was trying to inflict.

 

“Answer him!” the other one screamed, backhanding him across the face. He tasted blood in his mouth, but again where there should have been pain, there was only a mild tickling sensation. “He’s taken the fucking pain meds!” The guard spat. “Son of a whore! Where. Is. Your. Fucking. Cage?”

 

“I do not understand,” Spock managed, as he tried to swallow away the bitter taste of blood, “I do not have a…” The man hit him again.

 

“Are you god-damned lunatics trying to create more work for me here?” the doctor shoved himself between the guards and Spock. “Jesus! Seems to me like it’s you two belongs in cages. Nothing but bloody animals. Get out. I can manage this alone.”

 

“With all due respect Doctor, we have been instructed to…” the first guard, seemingly the calmer of the two tried.

 

“With absolutely no due respect to you, may I remind you that you are purple. You are a god-damned factory worker upstart trying to throw your insignificant weight around. You may think that you stand above the other tiers but from where I’m standing You.Are.All.The.Same!” he brandished his golden wristband at the shocked man, whose face was quickly draining of colour. “Do you see this, kid? This means I’m from Zymph. Tier 1. Might as well be a God to you. One word from me and your asses will be demoted right down to Zeya…might even end up in Zod. So, unless you want to spend the rest of your days shovelling shit and sucking off men like me for a living, I suggest you do as you are instructed and get the fuck out!”

 

The men scarpered, practically tripping over each other in their haste to exit. The doctor’s cool gaze now fell to Spock. “Why did you attack him?” He asked, the anger now entirely absent from his tone, and without waiting for an answer he turned his attention away from the puzzled Vulcan and back towards his patient.

 

“I did not attack him.” Spock wished that he could spit the blood from his mouth but dared not attempt such a thing, he tried to move his arms, but the men had bound him tight.

 

“Oh yeah? Then who did?” The doctor appeared to be scanning Jim’s lifeless body; his master it seemed had fallen back into unconsciousness.

 

“I do not know,” Spock answered carefully, “I attempted to…to…connect with him in an effort to discern that information for you, but his mind…it was troubled…his memory…”

 

“It’s a concussion, pretty mild I’d say, he may be disorientated and a little confused for a few days, but the little shit will live, don’t you worry about that.” The doctor said, not unkindly. “You attempted to connect with him, you say? Hmm…I’ve heard about that crazy Vulcan mind-voodoo…was never sure I believed it myself.” He pulled a shot from his kit and jammed it into the human’s neck. Jim jerked, and Spock stumbled forwards in response. The doctor raised his brows. “Slave, are you…worried about him?” He sounded uncertain, as his clever hands moved across the unconscious man’s body, checking, probing and occasionally reaching for pieces of equipment.

 

Spock swallowed, a gesture highly human in nature that he would never usually have allowed himself to succumb to. “I am…Doctor…Sir,” he answered quietly, “he is different to my previous masters…I find myself wishing him not to suffer.” He hesitated, afraid that what he might say next would get Jim into trouble yet knowing that he must tell the truth to allow the doctor to help his master. “Doctor, what that man said was true. My master has given me the pain inhibitor…and I believe…based on what I experienced during our connection… that he has neglected to administer it to his own person.”

 

McCoy’s eyes widened, “son of a….” he muttered and reached into his kit. Spock recognised the object as another of the pain inhibitors. “It’s just as well you told me that…Spock, is it?” Spock nodded but the doctor’s concentration was entirely on Jim. “I was just about to fix his arm…pretty sure he wouldn’t have thanked me for it if all of his pain receptors were working.” He smiled and then pulled at the man’s arm whilst running another device over it.

 

“Spock?” Jim groaned, opening his swollen eyes, “why can’t I see? What’s that taste?” The man spat a glob of red blood onto the floor. Spock raised a brow; Jim it seemed was rather less concerned by etiquette and decorum than he was. “Doc?” Jim struggled to sit up. “Good to see you again, I knew you were dying to pay us another visit!” He flashed a bloody smile at McCoy, who grumbled an unsavoury response under his breath. Jim however paid him little mind, as he stretched his neck to see past the doctor to take in Spock. The man’s face fell. “What happened?” he said darkly, “Spock…your face…why are you restrained? What is the meaning of this?” He began to struggle against McCoy. “Let go of me!” Jim roared, “Who did this? Was it you? I swear I’ll…”

 

“You’ll what exactly? McCoy shoved another shot into Jim’s neck, resulting in a rather unmanly yelp. “You going to talk me to death? Because looking at you sunshine, you ain’t going to be up to much more than that for a few days…Spock…come here.”

 

Spock, who had been observing this interaction in stunned and confused silence, stepped nervously towards the gruff, silver tongued doctor. “Hurry up man, I don’t have all day!” The doctor grabbed him firmly by the arm and then reached around him to unfasten his bindings. When his arms were free, Spock sank gratefully to his knees and placed a tentative hand on his master’s forearm.

 

“Jim…are you…well?” He asked quietly, still uncertain as to exactly what conduct was expected of him.

 

Jim smiled and placed his branded hand over Spock’s. “I’ve felt better,” he sighed and grimaced, “don’t remember what happened…something about a wall shaft…. What the fuck is a wall shaft anyway?”

 

Spock blinked. “I am afraid that I do not know.” McCoy snorted in a manner most undignified. Spock raised an eyebrow reflexively.

 

“That’s a wall shaft,” he pointed absently at a rectangular shape on the wall, “you press the button and it opens and you put your used stuff in it…plates, bedding…whatever…” He cleared his throat, “looks like you’re going to be fine kid.” He almost smiled, “but whoever did this wasn’t messing around.” He glanced in Spock’s direction, “your Vulcan here swears that it wasn’t him…and…well they aren’t exactly a species renowned for their fabrications. Plus, I’ve never seen a slave do damn concerned for his master’s safety.” Spock saw the back of Jim’s neck flush at this. “Just…let’s not make this a habit ok? I’m a busy man, I can’t be visiting you both twice daily…” It was only then that Spock noticed how rumpled the doctor’s attire had become in comparison to how it had been earlier. The man ran a tired hand through his hair.

 

 

Attention all trainers!

 

All three of the room’s inhabitants jumped as the computer screen sprung to life. A woman sporting a clipped bob and startlingly bright, red lipstick smiled out. A bronze band encircled her wrist identifying her as a member of tier 3 – Zora.

 

Welcome to the Tournament! The first round will begin in precisely seventy two hours. Please find all necessary equipment for slave training in the trunks that by now have been delivered to your room. You should also familiarise yourself with your handbook and computer systems. The nature of the first round will not be revealed until one hour before the challenge begins. Points will be allocated according to performance. As this is the first challenge, no sacrifice will be required. However, after the second challenge, the two lowest scoring slaves will be eliminated, and their masters disqualified.

 

Work hard and may the best trainer be victorious!

 

The screen flicked off and the woman disappeared from view.

 

“Three days,” McCoy muttered, “they sure aren’t giving you kids much time to prepare this year.” He settled awkwardly on his knees, his clever eyes flitting between the bloodied pair. “Look,” he lowered his voice to little more than a whisper, “you didn’t hear this from me, but the first round, it ain’t going to be anything too showy. No combat or obstacles or anything physical.” He looked Spock up and down and then turned his attention back to Jim. “Yours isn’t the only slave to arrive in less than top physical condition, they’ll want to give them time to recover. That’s if their masters are smart enough to stop beating on the poor bastards.” He sighed, and rubbed a hand over his tired eyes, “use this time to rest and to learn.” He stood up and walked over to the screen, lifting it carefully off the wall before sliding his finger up the back of it. To Spock’s amazement the device split into two smaller screens. McCoy turned and handed them one each.

 

“I did not know that it did that.” Jim said with an amazed blink. He reached tentatively for the device. “It operates by touch…that is so neat!”

 

“The information that it contains is limited to things you will need for the tournament. It also connects to the internal network, but you can’t access any external networks. There’s usually some sort of knowledge quiz type round but the questions are always pretty obscure, so learn as much as you can. There could also be some problem solving tasks…I don’t know…it changes every year…” He started to pack his small case. “I’ve probably said too much already.”

 

“No!” Jim struggled to pull himself into a standing position. Spock hurried to assist him, pulling the human into an awkward half-embrace as he did so. Jim smelled like soap and cinnamon. Spock blinked, surprised that he should note such a personal and intimate detail. “Doc…thank you…we really appreciate the help.” He smiled his dazzling smile, albeit rather more bloodily than usual.

 

“Why are you telling us this?” Spock hadn’t meant to say it aloud; had meant to puzzle on the question internally. He flinched and took an unconscious step behind Jim, expecting the doctor’s fiery temper to flare up again.

 

“Let’s just say you two make a refreshing change,” the doctor said with a wink. He held out a hand to Jim who shook it and then, much to Spock’s complete bafflement, the hand was offered to him. Spock reached out tentatively and grasped it.

 

“I’ll check in tomorrow if I can, see how you’re both doing,” McCoy released Spock’s hand, “I suspect those bloody purple scumbags were responsible for the concussion, so be careful. Use the tablet,” he indicated to the screens they still clutched, “to order food. And the wall shaft,” he pointed, “to dispose of your dishes. And for god sake get some rest!”

 

“Yes sir!” Jim offered a mock salute and the doctor grumbled something that sounded a lot like ‘insubordinate little prick’ under his breath.

 

“Thank you, Doctor.” Spock said quietly as the man turned towards the door.

 

“You’re most welcome,” the man answered, “just no more injuries please, at least not today. Oh,” he paused, his hand on the handle, “I’d recommend ordering the pizza for dinner.” He smiled knowingly, “and perhaps a couple of beers.” And then he was gone.

 

“I like him.” Jim turned his lazy, tired smile to Spock, “he’s not at all what I imagined Zymph to be like.” The two were standing awkwardly leaning against each other for support. “He seems like a pretty good guy.” Spock nodded silently and stepped uncertainly in the direction of the huge, abandoned bed. “Hmmm….good idea…” Jim yawned and then shivered. “It’s freezing in here…I wonder if this magical tablet thing will sort the heating out too?”

 

“It seems likely,” Spock said as he led a still limping Jim across the room and pushed him gently onto the mattress, before climbing on himself, being careful as ever to maintain a proper distance between them. A heavy silence fell and then Jim started to prod at his tablet, a slight frown on his face. “Jim?” Spock addressed him quietly.

 

“Hmm…yeah?”

 

He hesitated and then asked: “What is pizza?”

 

Jim froze, his brow furrowing further. “Do you Mr.Spock.” He said thoughtfully, “I have absolutely no idea.” Another devastating grin, “but I think it might be time that we found out!”


	6. Chapter 6

The centre of Jim’s awareness as he gradually approached waking life, was the strange, uncomfortable sensation of a cool, glass something digging into the left side of his face. A slight sliver of light stole through the crack between his lids as he slapped at the object that had so rudely pulled him from his slumber. It was the tablet. Shit. It’s today. He bolted upright, hands scrabbling against the device as he scanned the room for his companion. “Spock?” he croaked, trying to blink the sleep from his eyes, “what time is it?”

 

“9.17 in the morning,” Spock answered immediately from where he was seated across the room, “we still have precisely five hours and forty-three minutes until the first event.” A pause. “Did you know that members of Zem, tier four, are eighty six percent more likely to suffer a respiratory disorder due to flora intolerance than members of the other tiers?”

 

Jim chuckled and collapsed back into the pillows, “no Spock I did not know that.” He paused, “could come in useful next time one of those red bastards is trying to arrest me…or shoot me.” He could practically hear Spock’s brain ticking over, trying to work out the seriousness of his remark.

 

“Does that happen often, Jim?” He heard Spock rise to his feet and the gentle padding of his bare feet as he moved towards the beverage machine. Jim smiled into the soft bedding as the smell of fresh coffee drifted towards him.

 

Two days earlier, they had worked together to properly investigate the large room; sorting through trunks of clothing, torture devices, books, towels, papers, medical equipment, toiletries, training equipment, a collapsible cage and a collection of objects that neither of them was able to identify. They had also discovered the beverage machine. Jim had allowed Spock to do most of the organising, as it quickly became apparent that he was more adept in that area. The sorting of the torture equipment had been a somewhat sombre affair, yet they had both handled the objects with a quiet combination of dread and fascination. Jim had done his best to reassure the Vulcan, whose complexion had taken on an even milkier hue than usual, and Spock had nodded and thanked him in a shaky voice.

 

“Not all that often,” He stretched and reached behind himself to build a pillow stack, “come to think of it, don’t you find it kind of odd that this place is using purples from tier 5 as security? Shouldn’t they be using reds? That’s what Zem are for…”

 

“Police and military.” Spock finished for him, settling two steaming cups on the table beside the bed. Coffee for Jim, tea for himself. The Vulcan tilted his head thoughtfully as he leaned casually against the side of the bed, “perhaps it is an opportunity for them to advance to a higher tier, or would that be highly unusual?”

 

“It’s not unheard of, sometimes people move up or down, though no-one ever progresses up through more than one level. Ever.” He snorted. “Can you imagine the reception I would get if I managed to make my way through both Zaidu and Zookfa and into Zeech?” He shuddered and reached for his coffee, at the same moment that Spock reached for his tea. Their hands brushed, and Jim froze, afraid that he would startle the other man. Spock, however, did not seem perturbed and simply picked up his cup and brought it thoughtfully to his lips.

 

“Unfortunately, I doubt you would be favourably welcomed,” he answered, “there appears to be much prejudice and social injustice on this moon.”

 

Jim chewed on his bottom lip as he stared at Spock’s long slender fingers, his slightly upturned lips, sharp, hazelnut eyes and beautifully elongated ears. This was progress. Spock barely seemed to be aware of their proximity to one another, or if he was aware, he simply wasn’t bothered by it. It had only been five days and yet the starved, terrified creature that had been delivered to him covered in blood and filth was barely recognisable. There were still moments, of course, when his eyes took on that glazed, distant look or worse, sheened with an unspoken terror. But for the most part, Spock seemed…better. The bond between them had been far less active too, a fact that Jim knew he should have been grateful for, yet strangely found himself wanting to explore further.

 

“The doctor is late,” Spock stated, eyes fixed thoughtfully on the contents of his cup, “I do hope that he has not come to any harm.” Jim laughed and received an arched brow in response.

 

“God help the bastard that tries to harm McCoy,” he chuckled, “he’s probably off snooping, trying to dig up some last-minute info for us.” Spock’s heavy gaze landed on him, causing his heart to flutter in response. Stupid. He chastised himself and pretended to be incredibly interested in his coffee.

 

“Jim…” Spock said carefully, “I fail to understand why the doctor is attempting to assist us. Is it not against the rules?” Jim could still feel the Vulcan’s stare burning into the side of his face. He swallowed and turned to face him, schooling his expression into calm amusement.

 

“He likes us,” he smiled, and placed a gentle hand on Spock’s shoulder. The slave’s eyes darted towards it, but he didn’t shrink away. “Don’t worry,” he levelled his gaze with Spock’s own, “we’re going to ace this thing, and if the doctor wants to offer us a little help, well I’m sure not complaining.”

 

“But the rules…” Spock protested quietly, a distant look of fear stealing into his expression, “if he…or we are caught…” Jim felt a distinctive tremor under his fingers and reflexively slid his hand up so that he was gently cupping the back of the Vulcan’s neck.

 

“It’s going to be fine, Spock,” he felt Spock lean the slightest bit back into his touch as though instinctively seeking comfort from the contact, and then….

 

“I have rules for a reason, slave,” a slimy voice, familiar, his master’s, stole through the blindfold. “The library is not for the likes of you.” Something was being pressed against his lips. Nothing phallic. Not this time. Rope? It was rope. “Bite on this to save your pretty tongue,” damp breath whispering in his ear, “you’ll need it for tonight.” And then, with no further warning his entire body started to convulse as waves of electrical currents caused his limbs to spasm. He wanted to cry out, to beg but control was beyond him as he jerked helplessly against his bindings. And then it was done. “Good boy, Spock,” he felt his master’s sticky palm touch his cheek, “now I’m sure you’ll think twice before breaking my rules again.”

 

Jim gasped as his mind returned to the present, to the room and his body. Spock’s eyes widened in horror as realisation dawned. “Master, I’m sorry.” He whispered, slipping back into the habit of using Jim’s recognised title. Spock started to withdraw, to pull away, fear and confusing swarming his expression.

 

“No!” Jim panted, keeping his palm firmly against the exposed flesh of the Vulcan’s neck, “no.” Spock froze, watching him with uncertainty. “Whatever it is, whatever I see, I can handle it.” He willed his racing heart back to normality. “We’re in this together,” his body seemed to take on a life of its own as he pulled the shaking Vulcan more fully onto the bed, shifting his weight so that the taller man could face him, “I just…I can’t do this if you are afraid of me, Spock.” His voice cracked, “this bond…whatever it is…it must be happening for a reason.” He bit his lip, “we need to learn to use it to our advantage.”

 

Spock seemed suddenly to shrink into himself and something told Jim that it was time to withdraw his touch. “I do not know how to control the bond,” Spock said quietly, “what you just witnessed…the shock treatment…my master would use it to be punish me whenever he felt that I was ‘getting too many ideas’. After a treatment I would be left confused and I found it more difficult to…remember things I had always known. Things from before I was a slave.” He looked imploringly up at Jim. Then to Jim’s complete astonishment Spock’s cool, lithe fingers reached hesitantly for his own. “I know that the control of one’s own mind and the ability to meld with others is a highly significant part of what it means to be Vulcan. And I remember stories about certain connections and bonds between warriors and…and lovers,” Jim could have sworn that Spock’s complexion took on a darker green shade, “but I do not know or remember how to control it.”

 

“We can learn together,” Jim said gently, marvelling at the feather light touches of Spock’s fingers as they caressed his own, “we’ve got time…and it might help us win.”

 

“What if I damage you? Your mind?” Spock shook his head sadly, his eyes on their hands. “I am untrained and only half-Vulcan, so already at a disadvantage. I tried to connect with you when you were injured, and your mind was in such confusion. I do not know whether it was in such disarray before I entered or because I entered.” Jim bit back the urge to make light of the situation, to joke about his mind being perpetually confused. Somehow, he doubted it would help.

 

“Am I interrupting?” came a distinctly southern drawl from the doorway, and Spock snatched his hand back. “I’m going to count to five and when I come in you’d both better be wearing pants or I swear to God, I’m eating all of these pastries myself.”

 

~*~*~*~*~*~

 

Spock reclined in the tub, relishing in the sensation of steaming, hot water lapping against his skin. It was almost time for the announcement. A part of him wanted to leap from the bath and start scrolling through the contents of the tablet again – there was still so much that he had to get through. But that was illogical. Better for him to use this time to further cement his new knowledge – overloading his brain would likely only lead to a state of confusion which could be disastrous during a test. Not for the first time, he cursed his own limitations; so many years when he should have been strengthening his mental prowess, should have been absorbing knowledge and learning self-control. Instead he’s been an exotic pet, used and abused and kept caged and unstimulated. He sighed and started to run through the equations that he and Jim had worked on the previous evening. Maths was calming, logical and something that Spock took to with ease. Jim, on the other hand, had been slower to grasp the various symbols and methodologies. But the human had been eager to learn, to share in Spock’s journey of mind improvement. And so, Spock had slowed his pace and helped his master, and the two of them had fallen into a rhythm of passing newly discovered information back and forth between themselves; Spock doubted that he had ever experienced a more thrilling interaction.

 

“Can’t you help him, Doc?” Spock’s sensitive hearing pricked at the sound of Jim’s quiet and heartfelt plea. “His planet was destroyed, he’s completely alone and now he’s got to compete in this freak show.”

 

“What do you want me to do about it?” McCoy sounded defensive, “I’m already risking a lot, even just being here on my off time…”

 

“I know, I know,” Spock could practically see Jim running his fingers through his hair in quiet frustration, “maybe…maybe if you could find some information. Books? I don’t know. Do you think the information that needs, information about his people, could be found in books?”

 

“Vulcan Mind-Voodoo: a beginner’s guide. You mean?” the doctor snorted at his own joke, but the seriousness soon returned to his tone. “I could look. I’m heading back to Zymph tomorrow and then I’m going off world for a few days. I’ll see if I can dig anything up.” A strange swelling sensation seemed to take up residence within Spock’s chest. He had learned to detest, loathe and despise the human race; had convinced himself that his mother had been an anomaly – the rarest of her kind, capable of compassion. But then these men, first Jim and now McCoy, seemed so genuine in their intentions, it was sometimes difficult to bear.

 

He fingered the release button and rose as the water was sucked from the tub, before reaching for a plump, white towel. Making quick work of drying himself he pulled on a loose-fitting pair of pants and a shirt and re-entered the large bedroom. Kirk and McCoy each sat, elbows resting on the heavy wooden table, nursing coffee. Humans, it seemed, had a real dependency on caffeine.

“Hey Spock,” the familiar warm smile spread across Jim’s face. His hair, still damp from his own wash, stuck out at odd angles. “Bones is heading off-world!” His eyes gleamed in unmistakable excitement.

 

“Bones?” Spock tilted his head and carefully lowered himself onto a chair next to his master.

 

“A nickname I got landed with at Med School,” the doctor made a small flicking gesture with his hand, as though attempting to send the memory away, “stupid if you ask me.”

 

“I think it’s rather fitting.” Jim’s grin was practically feline. “But you’re missing the point. Where are going, Doc?”

 

“Don’t know yet,” McCoy took a sip of his coffee, “And I wouldn’t tell you even if knew.” Kirk scowled at this but didn’t press the matter. Spock suspected that this was due to not wanting to anger the doctor, considering the request for assistance that he had just made.

 

Attention trainers!

 

Jim practically did jump to attention as he grabbed his tablet from the table. A cold shiver ran down Spock’s spine as he carefully lifted his own tablet. This was it.

 

The first event in this year’s Tournament will begin in approximately 30 to 60 minutes. Please note that all participants will be allocated an individual time slot. You will be collected from your rooms and brought to your testing room.

 

The attribute that we are testing today is: obedience.

 

Trainers. Please ensure that you bring any training equipment with you, as none shall be provided in the training room. All devices that have been provided are allowed, however points may be deducted if their use during the test is deemed as being excessive.

 

Work hard and may the best trainer be victorious!

 

The screen’s flickered off.

 

“Training equipment…devices….what a god-damned mess this is going to be.” McCoy grumbled and rose to his feet. “I’d better go check-in, some of those other trainers are practically feral. Slaves don’t stand a chance.” He glanced between Jim and Spock, “good luck kids,” his gaze settled on the Vulcan, “I’ll come check you over afterwards.”

 

“I’m not going to hurt him!” Jim’s anger flared, as he glared at McCoy accusingly.

 

“Things change when you get in there,” the doctor said sadly, “it’s the pressure – your whole tier relying on you, all the higher tiers wanting you to fail, and it all rests on him.” He sighed, “But for what it’s worth Jim, I do believe you’ll try not to hurt him.”

 

And without another word. Doctor Leonard McCoy swiftly exited the room.

 

~*~*~*~*~

 

The Doctor’s final words swam around his head as the guards led him and Jim to their allocated room. It all rests on him. Spock had known, of course, how important this chance was for Jim. He’d listened to the man’s stories and read about the harsh living conditions of the lower tiers, and yet it had only been when McCoy had spoken those words that the reality of the situation really settled on his shoulders.

 

Obedience. That was the test. What would Jim tell him to do? How would it work? Spock stared stoically ahead, willing calm to enter his mind. He could obey. Jim had done so much for him, treated him with such respect, reverence even. Ensured that his every need was met. Now it was his turn to show his gratitude. He was not Spock; he was not of Vulcan; he was not the half-breed son of a human and a highly commended ambassador; he was not a sex slave; he was not Jim’s trusted partner. He was a vessel, a machine, a computer. Commands would be issued, and he would obey. No matter how bizarre, how shameful, how terrible, how painful or degrading. A machine did not question, a machine simply executed the tasks that had been input.

 

Two of the guards stepped before him, holding up their hands; the universal signal for ‘stop’. Spock did so. Jim, who had been uncharacteristically silent as they had walked through the hotel, was ushered inside. His master did not even look back.

 

“You will wait here until instructed to enter,” one of the guards said, a female, fair, petite with kind eyes, “when you go in your master will tell you what to do.” Spock nodded his understanding and waited.

 

Staring down at his own attire, he tried not to marvel at the workmanship; something told him that this gown was worth more than anything he’d ever touched. Cerulean silk, delicately embroidered in silver, it felt deliciously light against his skin. Beneath it he wore undershorts of the reverse colour combination, and on his feet, he wore simple black slippers. Would he be required to wear such finery for all of the tasks? Jim too had been given new clothes to wear, but unlike Spock’s attire, his included tight black pants, a leather belt and a golden dress shirt.

 

“You may now enter.” The female guard interrupted his reverie as the door slide open.

 

I am a machine. I will obey.

 

Spock lowered his gaze and stepped into the room.

 

“You will take five steps and then stop. Keep your eyes on the ground.” Jim’s authoritative tone reached him immediately.

 

Easy enough. Spock did as he was instructed. Peripherally he could make out the guards lining the walls but as far as he could tell, there was no-one else in the room. No audience. No judges. No esteemed guests.

 

The sound of whispering, impossibly low, tickled his sensitive hearing. And then Jim was speaking again. “Touch the floor with your hands. Count to six, out loud, and then straighten up.” Jim’s tone left no room for argument, not that Spock had any reason to protest. Machines do not protest. He carried out the orders with precision and without delay.

 

The whispering came again. What is that? Insignificant. Machine’s do not question – only obey. “Take two more steps and then look at me.” Spock did so. Jim was standing in the centre of the room, his beautiful, sad eyes fixed entirely on Spock. The whispering came again, and his master’s eyes widened in anger as his hands balled into furious fists. “Take off your robe.” Despite the emotions that Jim expressed bodily, his voice remained calm and controlled. Spock needed that calm, needed to channel it into himself as he undid his sash and allowed the expensive garment to fall to the ground.

 

Again, the whispering and Jim closed his eyes, and took a deep breath. “Take off your footwear and underwear.” Fear speared through Spock, achingly, terrifyingly familiar as he realised what this was. The whispering. Jim must have been wearing some sort of hidden ear piece, someone outside of this room was instructing him. This test wasn’t only to measure the slaves’ obedience to their masters; it was to measure the masters’ obedience to the council – to the tournament.

 

Spock stepped out of his slippers and rolled the shorts down his hips, as he forced the terror back into the pit of his stomach. I can do this. This is for Jim. I can do this for him. His eyes darted quickly around the room. Cameras, at least twenty two of them, filming every angle. This was being broadcast out for all of the higher tiers to witness.

 

“Come here.” Jim said gently, his voice barely more than a whisper. The whispering came again but Spock deigned to block it out. There is only Jim. I am here to serve Jim. Jim will not hurt me. There is only Jim. “Undo my belt.” Jim’s voice broke, “push down my pants and t-take out my…”

 

Spock didn’t need him to finish, as his clever Vulcan fingers moved quickly and expertly to remove his master’s garments. Jim jerked as though wanting to pull away, and Spock could feel him trembling. But as he reached in to release his cock, Spock was shocked to find it standing proud and ready. Heart hammering against his ribs, Spock glanced up to find Jim’s eyes fixed on his own. They were sparkling but with which emotion Spock could not tell.

 

“On your knees,” Jim’s voice was firmer now, more commanding. “Take me in your mouth and suck me until I cum.” The words were so harsh, so brutal that Spock shivered. “Use your hands if you must, but don’t take too long about it.” Spock couldn’t move. This isn’t happening. Panic began to rise in his gut. Jim…for Jim…it’s not real…it’s not…. “Spock.” Jim moved suddenly and grabbed his chin, the motion must have looked rough, dangerous, but his fingers were gentle. Another sensation, Jim reaching through the bond, gentle caresses, reassurance and pure desire. Raw and unmistakable. Spock gasped as he felt the human’s need. Jim didn’t just want to use his mouth; Jim wanted all of him. He felt heat stir between his own legs at the intensity of his master’s longing. It wasn’t sadistic or domineering, but something else. Jim craved something shared; mutual pleasure between equals. “I will not ask you again,” the brutal tone did not match the feelings that were flooding the bond. “Get on your knees.”

 

Spock sank to the floor, his own erection bobbing upwards, for all to see. He did not care. He reached out behind Jim and pulled him closer, left hand ghosting over firm buttocks as his right hand sealed itself around the man’s erection. And then he was tasting him, and for the first time the taste and sensation of another man did not make him want to retch. He groaned against the sensitive skin and swirled his tongue and lips around the aching head. Jim gasped, one hand placing itself against the back of Spock’s neck, as he had earlier that day, the other tangling itself gently into this hair. “Fuck!” He gasped. Spock raised his eyes to find his master, staring down at him, flush and trembling with need. So beautiful, so golden. Spock offered him a promising smile and then took his length into his mouth, hollowing his cheeks and humming as he did so. Releasing his hold on the man’s cock he cradled his testicles gently in his hand as he began to knead his buttocks more firmly. Jim began to rock into him, his breathing desperate, the hold on his hair tightening in need. Spock ran a finger down his cleft, a promise and a threat of more, he could feel and hear Jim through their bond, silently begging him to part him, to claim him with his talented fingers. Next time. Spock sent back. Next time I will claim every inch of you. Ecstasy thundered through the bond as Jim released himself into Spock’s throat with a strangled cry. The man was shattering, coming undone, as his knees trembled. Spock reached around, so that both hands were holding the man from behind and he worked Jim’s orgasm out of him with his mouth. It was a miracle, he thought, that the sensations he’d experienced through the bond hadn’t triggered his own ignored cock to shoot its load. Jim had not instructed him to reach orgasm, so the uncomfortably full feeling between his legs was probably a good thing.

 

The whispering came again, pulling them both back to their surroundings. Jim took a deep, shuddering breath. “Tuck me back in, get dressed and then stand facing the door.” Spock did so without hesitation. Jim, it seemed, could no longer look at him, as his eyes stared blankly at the ground.

 

“This test is over.” The guards approached and one of them helped Jim to remove his ear piece. “We will now escort you back to your room.”

 

Spock couldn’t tear his eyes from his master’s back as they walked silently back through the corridors. Jim was tense, shoulders thrown back, his focus straight ahead. Worry began to worm through Spock’s chest. Had he done something wrong? Had he misunderstood the instructions somehow? Had his silent promises enraged his master?

 

“Should you wish to view the broadcast of your first round, it should now be available on your computer.” One of the male guards said. “You will not be permitted to watch other contestants as you will not be exposed to them until a later round. Scores will be made available this evening.” And then Spock and Jim were back in their room.

 

Less than an hour had gone by since they had stood together within this space. Precisely thirty-two minutes in fact. Thirty-two minutes and everything had changed. For better or worse, something told Spock that the tenuous relationship that they had started to build had been shattered. “Jim?” he tried, uncertain as to what to say or do next.

 

James Kirk glanced at him once and shook his head. “I can’t…not now,” he breathed, “I’m sorry. I just need…” he shook his head again and then headed for the balcony. As the door slid open, Spock felt the biting chill of the late afternoon autumnal breeze, and then Jim pulled the door closed behind him, leaving Spock standing alone.


	7. Chapter 7

Heavy, dark clouds hung ominously overhead, pregnant with the promise of rain. The biting breeze was already transforming, growing in strength and purpose; the storm would arrive very soon. Jim gripped the railings of the balcony and stared at the grey, stone building ahead. A balcony without a view seemed like a terrible waste, but he supposed it made sense; he’d been blindfolded during his journey to the hotel, to prevent his exposure to the rest of the complex. He wasn’t sure whether this was to stop him from seeing places that were relevant to the tournament, like an arena or obstacle courses, or whether it was to prevent him from plotting an escape.

 

He wished that he could escape. A single, fat water droplet caressed his cheek, immediately followed by another, and then another. Jim let go of the rails and slid to the ground, pulling his knees up into a hug, and welcomed the icy downpour. Anger pulsed through his core, coupled with shame and trailed by whole host of other emotions that he wasn’t ready to identify.

 

Homosexual. Alien-fucker. Abuser. Rapist. Sexual Predator. Low-life. He gripped helplessly at his own damp hair as he imagined the names that people would call him. What had he done? The guards had told him that there were a total of fifteen points available; ten for how well Spock obeyed, and five for his own ability to follow the instructions issued through the ear piece. Greedy. Pervert. Queer. Violator. It hadn’t even occurred him to change the instructions, to make it easier for Spock. Should he have forfeited his own share of the points? Would Spock have preferred that? His stomach clenched as a nauseous roil passed through him.

 

A crack and rumble overhead and then the rain really began. Freezing droplets soaked his clothes, his hair, his skin. In response, he felt his body start to shiver as his jaw began to chatter, desperately trying to warm him. Tears pricked his eyes and he tilted his head back to stare up in the furious sky. He let the tears fall.

 

What would his mother say? His friends? Everyone he’d ever known? Would they even find out? Zaita weren’t permitted to watch the Tournament. Would an exception be made? Something made him think that it might be; not for their viewing pleasure, but for his shame. He remembered the queasy master of ceremonies from the week before and the scathing prejudice of the guards from Zeech. Of course they would want his tier to watch! Homosexuality was outlawed in Zaita. Masculinity was to be strived for at all costs. Both genders worked hard in the fields, but the men took on the most laborious tasks. Then they went home and fucked their wives or found some other girl willing to service them. That was how it worked. Men simply did not fuck other men. He would be ridiculed, shunned, probably never to be welcomed back among them.

 

Jim had partaken in sexual relations before, with women, and had found it enjoyable in a lukewarm kind of way. It passed the time, and they certainly seemed to enjoy him. If his eyes had wandered to the rippling bare backs of other young farmers, or stared longingly at bulging muscles, he had buried the accompanying thoughts. It was forbidden. It was disgusting. It was wrong. 

 

And then Spock had come along. Spock with his beautiful, alluring eyes, his tall, lithe body, his hair that just begged to be stroked and those perfectly, shaped ears, so alien and yet so endearing. Spock was intoxicating. Jim had tried to bury it, tried to deny the attraction. Spock had been abused, Spock needed something platonic, something that did not involve sexual interest on his part. Spock needed someone to be his fucking friend. And what had Jim done? He had publicly forced Spock onto his knees and made him suck his cock. Worse. Jim had enjoyed it. Oh, he hadn’t wanted to hurt him. No, he’d just wanted to run his hands and his mouth all over the exposed flesh. To kiss his still healing wounds, to cover his thin frame with his own, to bury himself in the Vulcan’s hot core. Spock’s fingers had graced his arse, teasing him and god he’d then wanted the slave to enter him. Had wanted to know what it would feel like to have another man inside of him.

 

“Jim?” he flinched at the sound of Spock’s voice from directly in front of him. Not yet. I’m not ready. He clenched his eyes shut. “You are not dressed to endure these meteorological conditions. You are placing yourself and your health in immediate danger. I cannot allow this and so will return you to the room.” Strong, capable hands gripped his arm and began to lift him.

 

“No!” he gasped, “leave me here. I can’t breathe in there.” Spock ignored him and snaked an arm around his waist, while his other wrapped itself around his forearm. He started to pull him towards the door. “Let go!” Jim was shouting now, furious that Spock was ignoring his wishes. The Vulcan did not even hesitate and forced him back into the room, before turning to close the door. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?” Jim had never felt anger towards the slave but now it was consuming. Spock. Why did he have get stuck with Spock? He could have been given a feral beast, a violent criminal, a mindless drone – anything but this complicated, exquisite creature. Perhaps then he would have been able to use the training equipment and devices. Perhaps then he wouldn’t have cared so damned much about winning; not for his tier, his friends and family, but for his fucking slave.

 

“You must undress,” Spock said calmly, “you are at immediate risk of hypothermia and I do not know how long it will take for the doctor to be able to assist us.”

 

“Fuck you Spock!” Jim spat through chattering teeth, “I’m not undressing for you.” He was barely even aware of what he was saying as his body shook. “This is not what was supposed to happen!” It was then that he realised that tears were still streaking down his face, the only warmth that he could feel.

 

For the barest of moments, Spock seemed uncertain, indecisiveness and then he turned and walked calmly into the bathroom. Jim, simply stood shivering and suddenly enraged at being left so abruptly. He opened his mouth to shout more obscenities at the alien slave, when Spock reappeared, a number of clean towels and a bathrobe slung over his arm. He walked back to Jim’s side, rested the towel carefully on a side table and proceeded to seize Jim by the shirt. “What are you…” Jim didn’t have time to finish as Spock pulled the soaking garment up and over his head. The movement was far from gentle and Spock did not finish there. He grabbed at Jim’s belt, and for the second time that day began to unfasten it. Jim made to stop him, grasping at him with fingers that were icy and numb, but Spock seized both of his wrists in his spare hand and held them there in a vice-like grasp. Fear plummeted into Jim’s belly as he realised, for the first time, the extraordinary difference between human and Vulcan strength. Spock had him completely at his mercy as he continued to unfasten Jim’s clothing with his other hand. “S-S-Spock,” he chattered, through his aching jaw which seemed to have taken on a life of his own. And then his pants were down, leaving him completely exposed to the Vulcan, who released him and knelt to pull his boots and his pooled garments from his body. Jim was frozen in place, too shocked by the ease in which Spock had disrobed him to react. What had he been thinking? He had allowed this alien, this stranger, this slave to regain his strength, without restraints, without a failsafe. Then he had publicly shamed and assaulted him. The Vulcan would be well within his rights, as a sentient being, to exact revenge upon him. Spock rose to his feet, his dark eyes roaming over Jim’s naked body and then he reached for the towels and began to dry him.

 

Jim’s knees shook as Spock roughly scrubbed at his skin and hair with the towels. There was nothing kind or gentle in the slave’s expression as he worked, just cool, clinical methodology. Memories of Spock’s abuse witnessed through the bond swam through his mind, the feel of those men, the burning as he was raped, the shame and the anger and the helplessness. Spock had been used by so many and now Jim had added his name to that list. Jim had gasped and shuddered in ecstasy as he had forced himself upon the poor soul before him. Now Spock would take his vengeance and who was he to blame him? He closed his eyes and clenched his fists. He deserved whatever he got. The towels fell away

 

“Jim,” Spock finally spoke, his tone holding the same calm cadence that it had before, “open your eyes and put this on.” The invitingly soft fabric of the bath robe was pressed against his chest. “And then perhaps you should get into bed.” Jim did as he was told, knowing that to fight would be futile against the Vulcan’s superior strength. Spock lifted a chair and followed him, placing it beside the bed and sitting on it carefully, his eyes trained on Jim the whole time. He was still dressed in the blue silk robe of the tournament. Jim pulled the blankets around him, suddenly willing the cold to leave, as the constant trembling became irritating.

 

“I find human behaviour to be most puzzling,” Spock said evenly, “I have tried researching it on the computer but it would seem that it is not relevant to the tournament so there is not much available.” His eyes darted down to Jim’s chest and then back up to his eyes, “I do not understand your behaviour today, Jim.” He continued, “I…” he hesitated and looked away, “forgive me, I find these feelings most…difficult to express.” His fingers flexed, betraying his anxiety. Jim watched nervously, unsure of what Spock was going to say or do next. “This morning you said that you could not do this if I was afraid of you. And while I do not fear that you will hurt or abuse me, as other humans have, I do fear the enigmatic nature of your behaviour. I find your emotions and your reasonings most perplexing and confusing. Jim…I….please….” his voice broke and he lowered his head, “please help me.” he broke off, hands shaking, a physical sign of the torrent of emotions that he was trying to control.

 

Shame flared through Jim, engulfing and encompassing as the wildest of flames. Not only had he debased Spock but he had turned him into a villain in his own mind. Convinced himself that Spock would act like a monster because he had done so himself. But Spock was better than that, better than him.

 

“I have abused you,” he croaked, eyes fixed on the Vulcan’s exposed collar bones, “you trusted me and I…”

 

“Jim,” suddenly Spock was moving, climbing onto the bed, elegant as a cat. He clasped Jim’s face with long fingers, which felt unusually warm on Jim’s cold flesh, “do not say that!” His voice was raw, Jim’s eyes darted up to meet his kind, intelligent gaze, currently swimming with concern. “What happened earlier, had to happen. You were as much a victim as I.”

 

“I enjoyed it!” Jim spat, pulling back. Spock’s hands fell away. “I’m no better than those monsters who…”

 

“No!” Spock gripped his hand, “no, never compare yourself to them Jim, please.” He shifted closer, and enclosed Jim’s cold fingers between his own. “I felt you through the bond,” he breathed, “I believed you felt me too.” And Jim could have sworn that the Vulcan blushed.

 

“The bond?” Jim frowned, and then the moment before his climax came back to him and he gaped at his slave. “You mean…that stuff about c-claiming me…that was you?” Now it was Jim’s turn to blush as heat prickled his neck and cheeks. He had thought the voice a part of his own sex-clouded fantasy.

 

Spock nodded and lowered his head. “Your thoughts, your passion, I have never experienced anything like that,” he said quietly, “I was not frightened by it, I welcomed it. It made it easier to…to shut the world out. I wanted to please you, Jim and I also wanted you to…” he trailed off and pulled back slightly, “I’m sorry, master. This is inappropriate,” his fingers withdrew from Jim’s and flexed, “I did not mean to suggest that…”

 

“No,” Jim breathed, “don’t do that!” He reached for Spock’s hands again, “don’t pull away now.” His tired mind was reeling. All of the shame and the anger, the social prejudice, the pressures melting away under the undeniable truth: he wanted Spock. “Do you want us to be more than…” how should he finish that question? Master and slave? Team mates? Companions? Friends?

 

“I do not have the words,” Spock seemed suddenly exhausted and small, so different from the all-powerful being he had seemed mere minutes earlier. His uncertain gaze reached Jim. “May I…may I attempt to communicate it through the bond?” Jim nodded.

 

Delicate fingers found Jim’s face, “relax your mind, be open to my own, let the thoughts and feelings flow, do not resist or try to fight. I will not hurt you Jim.”

 

Longing. Craving. The need for affection. So raw and new and previously unknown. To desire the words of another, the urge to feel their warmth, the joy in watching them smile. Not them, he, him, Jim, James Tiberius Kirk, his master. The excitement he had felt at pleasuring him, the undeniable hunger for more and the fear and the guilt. So soon after those other men. Jim deserved better, so much better. Jim deserved someone whole, unbroken by the world. Someone who had not been so soiled. Desiring and fearing, wanting to be touched and dreading it. The association. Jim was his master. Spock knew what masters liked to do. This was different but was it really? So much confusion and longing. Slowly, maybe if they proceeded slowly. What was it like to kiss someone? Spock, for all his experience, had never yet being kissed.

 

Spock’s fingers slid down Jim’s face, as the thoughts faded and carefully wiped away his tears. “I have never,” Jim gasped, not caring how many tears fell, “never met a soul more whole or more deserving than yours.” He shook his head incredulously. “From the moment I saw you, I’ve been fighting it, denying it, too afraid to admit to myself…but Spock,” he raised his hand and rested it again against the back of the Vulcan’s neck. Spock’s eyes relaxed in comfort and pleasure. “I will take this as slow as you need,” he swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry, “this is new to me too.” He admitted, “I’ve never had…anything…anything like this.” He raised a trembling finger to trace Spock’s jaw and perfectly shaped lips.

 

Spock moved then, lithe and nimble and feline, he pushed Jim back against the pillows and leaned, over him, strong and slim and oh so gentle, as worshipping hands loosened his robes and skimmed over the bare skin of his torso. Jim’s breath hitched at the boldness of the move, but he complied, allowing the Vulcan to explore with featherlight touches. Spock was transfixed, his eyes soaking up Jim’s nakedness with a curiosity and hunger that made him shudder. The Vulcan was trembling too, almost imperceptibly, but in this position Jim could feel him, sense him. He reached tentatively for Spock’s hand and brought it up to his own cheek. Spock’s eyes widened in surprise as he looked searchingly at Jim. “Let me try,” Jim whispered. Spock nodded and closed his eyes, his fingers finding their hold against Jim’s face.

 

‘Can you feel me?’

 

‘Yes. You are magnificent.’ Safety. Home. Wonder.

 

‘You were wondering what it feels like to be kissed...” Anticipation. Need. Longing. 

 

The intensity of the bond faded but did not break, and Jim was suddenly aware of his fingers threading through Spock’s hair pulling him down so that their faces were mere inches apart. Spock’s scent, clean and slightly spicy, filled him and then there was nothing between them. Soft, sumptuous lips brushed hesitatingly against his own. Jim felt the familiar urge to dominate, to worship the Vulcan with lips and tongue but he supressed the urge, allowing Spock to lead, to test, to become more certain. To Spock’s credit, it didn’t take him long to get the hand of it. Every nerve in Jim’s body was tense with need as Spock cupped his jaw with one hand and stroked his body with the other, all the while tasting and teasing him with his mouth.

 

Jim pulled back with a gasp, “God you are just too good at that.” He groaned and felt his cock springing to life between them. This was so much more than he had bargained for, so much more than he deserved.

 

Then something in Spock changed. Jim felt it reverberate through the bond as Spock tensed above him.

 

More, he needs more. Not yet, please, not yet. I am not ready to give everything.

Jim felt the cold return to his body as Spock’s panicked thoughts reached him. Unwilling to let this end badly Jim focused on sending his own thoughts and feelings into the bond. He imagined that he was stroking Spock’s mind with his own, calming, reassuring.

 

“This is wonderful, Spock, this is enough.” He soothed out loud, “I want to hold you and kiss you and revel in the glory of you welcoming me to do so.” He nuzzled the man’s cheek. “I want to breathe you in and play with your fingers and kiss your neck and jaw until you squirm.”

 

Spock was still tense, “Your body betrays you. I can feel the evidence that you want much more than that.”

 

Jim smiled and pulled Spock down so that he was lying next to him and pulled the covers over them both. “I’m not a slave to my cock,” he said biting his lip, “hell, I’m probably going to get hard for you fifty times a day. Please don’t ask me to apologise or explain every time or we’ll never get anything else done.”

 

Spock tilted his head to the side, in obvious confusion, “I was under the impression that human men could not control their desires,” he said thoughtfully, “hence why they have been forced upon me so often.”

 

Jim rolled onto his side and propped himself up so that was looking down at Spock. “I’m going to prove to you that we can,” he said seriously, “we are very capable of controlling ourselves. It’s just that some choose not to. I am not like that. This happens at your pace. I am not going to push you into anything, I swear it.”

 

“What about if the tournament demands it?” Spock asked softly, his eyes suddenly sad. Jim felt the spark go out of him. What could he say to that? There were no promises that he could make.

 

“I…Spock….I….” he closed his eyes, “we will discuss that, I promise, but not now, please.” He swallowed. “For now, just let me hold you, let me kiss you and let us sleep.”

 

“It is not yet evening,” Spock countered.

 

“I don’t care,” Jim nestled down and pulled Spock towards him, pressing a gentle kiss against his lips, “let’s just sleep for a little while, and then we can order dinner…and beer…I think after today beer is called for…” he yawned again, “we still need to find out the scores…” he closed his eyes.

 

Spock had understood Jim’s desire to hold him but as the man started to sink into slumber, he decided that he wished for quite the opposite. Jim grumbled slightly but did not protest as Spock manoeuvred them so that his arm was wrapped around the human and Jim’s head was tucked against his shoulder. Spock smiled gently and breathed in the fragrance of Jim’s golden hair. He was not tired enough for sleep, but the thought of spending an hour with Jim’s body, warm now, nestled against his own was not an idea that he was opposed to. No, he was not averse to that idea at all.


End file.
